


When the Bough Breaks

by Le_Rouret



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baby!Cas, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hellhounds, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Rouret/pseuds/Le_Rouret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a quiet night in the little house outside of Singer Salvage in Sioux Falls ... until all Hell breaks loose.</p><p>This deviates slightly from canon in that Bobby did not kill his wife, and Rufus exorcised Karen when she was possessed.  It explores their childlessness and gives them a peek into the future.</p><p>Warnings for baby talk, Bobby's bad language, memories of physical abuse, and angel wankery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

 

 

 

            The house was very quiet.

            The TV was turned off, and the radio wasn’t working. Their weekend guests had gone home, warm and satisfied after a good meal and comfortable conversation. The two-lane dirt road that connected their house to Sioux Falls was dark and empty at that time of night. And there was nobody living in the closest house to them, a mile and a half down the street; it had been abandoned and boarded up for a year.  They had no neighbors, and folks didn’t stop by unless they were invited. So Bobby and Karen might as well have been the last two souls in South Dakota under that clear and starry night sky.

            Then the mass of dark clouds suddenly, inexplicably, almost imperceptibly rolled over them – swift, roiling, flickering and crackling with lightning. This was completely contrary to the weekend weather report, the local report that Bobby and Karen did not hear, since they had not watched the news, and their little transistor radio was currently dismantled on the kitchen table, mute and useless. One of the most violent and inexplicable storms of that summer, it was reported afterwards, came out of absolutely, positively nowhere, and unleashed its fury on a small, ten square mile area in a remote rural section of South Dakota.

            Karen barely registered the first grumble of thunder. She was deeply engrossed in a Woman’s Day article about the “perfect pot roast,” thinking very hard about whether or not to add red wine to the gravy, and mentally tallying the current ratio of carrots to potatoes in her pantry. Her little house was peaceful, peaceful and clean and shabby and perfect. It smelled of Lysol and dish detergent and very faintly of grease and gasoline, but as the latter two reminded her of a steady income, they did not bother her. Her husband was tinkering with their little transistor radio in the kitchen, and the patter of rain on the window next to her comfortable rocking chair was a soothing background thrum.

            The next rumble rattled the wooden window pane, and sent her empty tea cup shuddering on its saucer. The accompanying flicker of lightning was like a Polaroid flash, and made her look up briefly and hope that Bobby got the radio working so they could listen to the news. Tornadoes weren’t common in Sioux Falls, but Karen was from Oklahoma, and knew how unpredictable they could be. She sent a brief and distracted prayer of thanks for their house’s safe dark cellar, hoped the Harvelles made it home safely, and returned to her magazine.

            The light on the side table stuttered, and the window clattered again. There was a bright flash, and the following crack shook the house from floorboards to attic. This upgraded the elements from “just some rain” to “oh dear, I’ve got so much stuff in the freezer, I hope we don’t lose power,” and Karen put down her Woman’s Day and called,

            “Bobby? Dear? Is there gas in the generator?”

            “Yes, love,” called her husband from the kitchen. There was a pause, and Karen could hear the scrape and click of her husband’s tools on the recalcitrant radio. It was nice that he was so handy. “Hell of a night out there.”

            “Mm. Yes.” Lightning flashed again, and there was another rumble; the lights flickered again. Well, thinking about pot roast was out of the question. Karen put down her magazine. “Sweetie, you want some tea? I’m gonna make some tea.” She put her hands on the rocking chair’s arms and stood up.

            This time, the flash, the bang, and the faltering lights all seemed to happen at once, and Karen jumped in surprise and alarm. Through her sudden spike of adrenaline, she heard her husband swear, and then the TV turned on by itself. Karen stared at it. It showed nothing but static, as though all the stations were out, and hissed and crackled at her. Startled, Karen turned around, noting her knees felt wobbly; her heart was hammering, and she told herself firmly, _Don’t be so silly. It’s just a storm._

            “Bobby!” she called, and mentally berated herself for the tremor of nervousness in her voice. The lights flickered again. “Good heavens! What was _that_?”

            “Goddammit.”

            The lights buzzed, then went out completely, shuttering the house in blue-black gloom. Karen could hear, very faintly, the soft purr of the radio from the kitchen. Karen thought, _Did Bobby fix it already?_  Then it occurred to her that the lights were off, but the TV was still on, emanating its pale, pulsing static.

            Another boom of thunder rattled the house, and Karen breathlessly felt her way to the kitchen, determining that, if she were going to die of fright, she’d much rather do it in her husband’s arms.  She shuffled up against Bobby in the dark. He smelled comfortingly of coffee and clean cotton, and the kitchen window over the sink flickered with driving rain like sparks in the flashes of lightning. She could hear the radio, faint, with voices muffled and indistinguishable behind the static.

            “Bobby,” she said, her hand closing on the soft flannel of his shirt.  Then she heard the TV turn itself off, and the lights came back on. She realized she was clutching him a little harder than a thunderstorm warranted, and let go with a self-conscious laugh. “Wow,” she said, smoothing the old flannel. “That was weird.”

            “Tell me about it.” Bobby frowned back at the radio, which was still whistling and rustling on the table. He picked it up and flicked the ON/OFF switch, and with a last fizzle, the sound died. He put it down, looked toward the living room where the TV had turned on, and said slowly, “Eh. I don’t like it.” He rummaged around in his tool chest, still sitting open on the kitchen table. “You stay put, love. Gonna walk the perimeter.” He pulled out his big flashlight and a crowbar. Karen stared at the crowbar and bit her lip.

            “Bobby, it’s just a storm,” she said. There was a double-flash of lightning and a tooth-rattling boom; she jumped and squeaked in surprise, and Bobby chuckled breathily at her when she glared at him.

            “Better safe than sorry,” he said fondly, dropping an absent-minded kiss on her forehead. “Stay put, love. I’m just gonna check the new flashing on the front porch roof.”

            “You need a crowbar for flashing?” she asked, suspicious.

            Bobby shrugged. “You never know,” he said lightly. “Like I said. Better safe than sorry.”

            Karen was put in mind of the sorts of things that Bill Harvelle had talked about after dinner – monsters and ghosts and hunts and rock salt. This didn’t make her feel any better, and she suddenly wanted Bobby to walk out there with more than just a crowbar. “Well,” she said nervously, “okay. Be careful.”

            “I will,” said Bobby. He crammed on his feed cap, hefted the crowbar, and grumbled his way out of the kitchen. When he opened the front door, Karen could see the driving rain light up like Christmas tree icicles in the lightning; he was silhouetted against the frenetic light, the crowbar balanced easily on one shoulder. When he shut the door, the thunder boomed and cracked, making it seem as though some celestial power had slammed it closed.

            Karen walked around the kitchen table, stared suspiciously at the now-quiet radio, put the kettle on the stove, and took out two mugs and the tea bags. She waited impatiently for Bobby until the kettle sang, listening to the rumble and report of the thunder, watching the blue-white flashes of lightning and hearing the old house clatter and shake.

            It shouldn’t be taking him this long … should it? Maybe he was in the salvage yard? Or had gone down to the road to check the culvert? It did flood sometimes during a heavy rain, and then she would be moated in, like an enchanted princess in a fairy tale. She allowed herself a small smile at that mental fancy, easily assigning Bobby the role of her knight protector. He’d even look cute in shining armor, bless his heart.

            The kettle whistled, and she poured hot water into the mugs, listening hard for her husband’s steps on the porch outside. The thunder banged and rattled, and the rain spattered against the window panes. Bobby was going to be soaked. And she had just mopped the floor, too.

            And then she heard it behind the heavenly racket: a high, thin, wrenching cry.

            _Baby?_ she thought automatically, then telling herself to be reasonable, _Bobcat, owl?_

Another crack of thunder obscured it, but when that faded, Karen could hear the wail – muffled by the drumming rain and furor, it keened into a crescendo, then sobbed its way down the scale until it was lost in the tumult of the elements.

            Karen knew enough about the wildlife thereabouts that she was certain it was _not_ a baby. Owls, wild cats, and other things sounded very much like people, especially at night, especially when your nerves were a little frayed by the continuous wreck of a storm battering your home, especially when your husband was tromping around in the rain and lightning, armed with nothing but a flashlight and a crowbar. She should certainly not fly off half-cocked because some beast had got caught in the storm.

            But then she thought of a lost, half-drowned cat, crying alone and helpless in the downpour, maybe even trapped and struggling, and her sympathies smote her hard. She covered the mugs with a tea towel to keep them hot, took her old scratchy sweater from the coat rack and put it on, and followed the cry out to the back door towards the salvage yard. Bobby would grumble about the mess and bother and not wanting the trouble of a pet anything, but Karen knew she could not in good conscience fail to heed a cat’s cry of distress – not when she was here, dry, warm, and safe inside her house. He would just have to let her have her way for once. And even if he wouldn’t let her keep the cat for good, at least she could do her good deed and save its life.

            She unbolted the back door and cringed back a little from the chill and fury of the storm. She should have brought a flashlight and an umbrella. But she gamely stepped out of the shelter of the back porch, wincing back from the stinging, lashing rain.

            It was surprisingly cold for a June night. Lightning flashes illuminated the hulking wrecks of cars and trucks, and reflected brightly off the steel-sided sheds and garages. There were several deep, muddy rivulets choking and gurgling through the yard, and the sound of water striking water was almost as loud as the rain hammering against the metal sheds. She stumbled over tussocks of weeds, slipping in the muck, trying to shield her eyes from the driving rain.  She ducked into the scant shelter of the low eaves of the rusty garage, ever hearing the petulant wail wind up, stutter, and die down into low snagged sobs. _Crazy scary how a cat can sound,_ she said firmly to herself, wrapping her soaked sweater more tightly around her shoulders.

           She followed the cry around the other side of the garage, her feet sinking into the wet earth and mud, and staggering a little when the ground gave beneath her. She steadied herself on the garage wall; it was slick with water, and cold. She was getting very wet. Rain drenched her shoulders and legs, and her hair was dripping. She wiped it out of her eyes and blinked, her eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. She rounded the corner, then stopped dead next to the shell of an old truck, staring, her heart hammering.

            Sitting naked in a mud puddle, soaked and shaking in the dark driving rain, was a baby boy, little dimpled hands clutched into fists, crying his heart out.

            It was 1980, and although Karen was not what anyone would have labeled a Liberated Woman, neither was she by any means a coward. She had no issues with the sudden swell of motherly instinct that made her step fearlessly down the slick slope into the darkness toward the baby. He turned to her, lifting his arms and raising his voice into a pleading wail, and she reached down to him, grasping his small hands. They were cold and slippery.  Tiny fingers clutched at her own, and she smiled down into his frightened little face, wanting nothing more than to warm and comfort him.

            Karen saw that he was little – younger than her youngest niece, probably less than a year old – with pale skin and dark hair, and eyes that seemed brighter than they ought to have been in this unlit corner of the salvage yard. He took in a shuddering breath and stared up at her, his little rosebud mouth pouting down, and her heart melted.  She put her hands firmly under his arms and pulled.  

            He ought to have been easy enough for Karen to lift, but something made him very heavy, something wrapped around him, dragging against her leg, some sort of dark cloth or –

            Lightning flashed, and she saw them, dark and drooping from the baby’s naked back. She jerked away on a peal of thunder, certain she was dreaming, or had mistaken a coat or blanket for something else. But then the baby, denied her proffered comfort, let loose a shrill shriek, and flared the black wings out, spraying water and mud all over her. They stretched, trembling and glistening in the darkness, wider than a man was tall.

            Karen felt suddenly faint.

            _Wings._

_That’s why he weighs so much,_ she thought, remembering her mother telling her, a long time ago, about cormorants that had to dry their wings after a dive because they got too heavy to fly. _He can’t fly, he’s soaked – _

She gave another shaky step back, her head spinning, wondering if she were dreaming. The baby stretched out his arms imploringly; his little hands were shaking, and the wings fluttered clumsily. He raised his voice in a plaintive wail, and a flash of lightning illuminated the large black appendages, wallowing sluggishly in the mud.

            Karen thought, _Bobby. Bobby will know what to do._ She ought to go get her husband. She should leave – go inside – find him – bring him out here to handle it. She took another step back away from the baby, and he stared desperately up at her, his arms falling into the water. She shook her head. Any more rain like this, and he would get washed away …

            Then she felt it: a prickling on the back of her neck as though she were being watched.

            She turned, and in the dull glow from the garage safety light, she saw reflected two red eyes, and heard a low growl. _Coyote,_ she thought, heart hammering; then, _Or something bigger._ She could hear her own breath, short and panicky, and under the clatter of the rain on the wet ground, the faint sounds of something large moving around in the wreckage.

            The baby sobbed, and Karen turned back to him. He was staring past her, to where she had seen the eyes, heard the growl. Whatever it was out there, it was watching that baby, and Karen was pretty certain its intentions were not benevolent.

Lightning flashed again, and Karen shut her brain off and let her heart make the decision. She stepped, slipping a little, back down to the baby, put her hands under his arms, and heaved up. The wings dragged behind him, limp and heavy. Cold little fingers sought her neck, and before Karen knew it, a small, wet face was pressed into her sweater.

            She cradled the shaking body close to her, noting how one of the wings flapped weakly, while the other one tucked itself close in. The baby was very heavy and very cold, and his wet skin made him slick. Karen looked back over at the dark corner past the garage.  The two red eyes were gone, but she still felt uncannily as though something was watching her from the shadows.

            Clutching him close, she turned back toward the warm light of the house and ran as fast as she could, hoping she was only imagining canine growls in her wake.

 


	2. 2

            Karen bolted up the back steps, shouldered roughly through the door, and slammed it shut with her foot. She fumbled the baby around in her arms, struggling to lock the door behind her, then squelched to the kitchen, leaving a trail of mud behind her. The house seemed very bright and warm, and by contrast, the tiny body and huge wings slogging in her arms were frigid.

            Bobby was standing at the table, drenched and dripping all over her clean floor. He had just put down his flashlight and crowbar, and was in the process of taking off his soaked cap. He turned when he heard her footsteps and growled, “I thought I told you to stay put ….”

            He trailed off, staring, and the cap slipped out of his fingers onto the floor. Karen, well aware she was dripping worse than water onto her linoleum and therefore couldn’t in all fairness fuss at Bobby for it, stared back, panting a little. There was a low rumble of thunder, like a man losing an argument, and the steady drip-drip-drip of the baby’s wings. Then he sniveled and shifted in Karen’s arms, his skin slippery. She tried to grip him more securely, and her arm clutched at the right wing. He jerked convulsively and let out a shriek, arching his back away from her hands, and she felt him slip from her arms.

            “Balls!” exclaimed Bobby, darting forward, and Karen was briefly and hectically thankful he was such a good athlete. He scooped the little boy up before he hit the floor, but the wing got crushed between them, and the baby shrieked in pain and jerked away, little limbs flailing, left wing flapping and splattering and whirring in the kitchen that suddenly seemed too small to hold him. “Wait,” Bobby said, sliding the cold little body out of Karen’s arms. “Just let go and wait a damn second.”

            Karen jerked back obediently, still admonishing, “Bobby! _Language_!” Wings or not, there was no need to curse in front of a baby.

            “Hell with that,” said Bobby. He knelt, set the little boy down on his lap. The shrieking had devolved into a series of short sobs, and Karen saw fat, shining tears slide down the damp cheeks. The baby looked up at her with his big blue eyes, and once again, the lower lip curved outward into a pained pout.  Karen suddenly wanted to apologize to him.

            “I think it’s hurt,” said Bobby. His eyes were fixed on the wings, the right one stretched and trembling, the left hanging limply down on the linoleum.

            “Oh dear, oh dear,” said Karen. She rushed for some clean kitchen towels from the drawer. “He’s wet and cold.”

            “This wing looks broke,” said Bobby. He righted the little boy, tried to stand him on little chubby feet, but the bowed legs wobbled, and the baby collapsed against him. Bobby wrapped competent hands around the little boy’s torso and held him upright.  The boy stared at him, wide-eyed. “Dammit – “

            “Here,” said Karen breathlessly, kneeling with a handful of towels. She dried the dark hair, wiped the rain and mud tears from the little face, wrapped the trembling body in floursack and terry cloth. The boy looked up at her, sniffling, lower lip pouted out, while Bobby held him still.

            When the boy was dry, Karen took him from Bobby’s unprotesting hands and gathered him into her lap. Once again little arms went round her neck, and a little face pressed up close to hers. She could feel his damp eyelashes and the give of his soft skin, but he wasn’t trembling anymore. He felt warm and soft and perfect in her arms, and her heart turned over.

            “Oh, Bobby,” she breathed.

            “Hush,” said Bobby uncertainly.

            Karen looked past the little boy’s spiky black hair. Her husband was examining the black wings carefully, fingers gentle and probing. First he stretched out the left wing; it was more than twice again the length of the little boy’s body, and heavy with mud and water. He took a clean dish towel and wiped it; the feathers were soft down where the wings protruded from the baby’s shoulders, but stretched out stiff and glossy. He tugged a little, and the boy made a discontented noise against Karen’s throat, and twitched the wing back in; it folded against his back, pressing damply against her hands. But when Bobby lifted the right wing, the little boy jerked in Karen’s arms and arched his back, letting loose a sharp cry.

            “Bobby, don’t,” said Karen urgently. “I think you hurt him.”

            Her husband shook his head. “Broke,” he said gruffly. “Yeah. See, here and here?” His fingers probed relentlessly, and the boy twisted and howled in her arms, trying to get away. His other wing flared out and flapped hard; the kitchen was full of the whirring feathery noise and a cold wind.

            “Bobby, stop!” Karen begged. “Don’t hurt him, please!”

            “Wing’s broke,” grumbled Bobby. “Hold it tight, now. Ain’t gonna like this much.”

            “Bobby!” protested Karen, but she held the squirming little body tight while Bobby’s fingers twisted and snapped. The child kicked and screamed and wrenched against her, trying to get away, and Karen felt like crying, but all she could do was to say, unsatisfactory to her own ears, “There, there.” The baby didn’t appear to find it very comforting, either, but sobbed broken-heartedly against her shoulder while Bobby set the wing.

            Finally Bobby stopped.  He carefully folded the wing back up, and the baby twitched and cried and clung to her.  Bobby’s face was sober and businesslike, but Karen noticed he stroked carefully, lightly down the wounded wing with his palm, as though he were making amends.

            “Okay, think that’s done it.” Bobby sat back and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. A small black feather stuck in his beard. “Lemme get some Ace bandages, hold on.”

            He got up from the floor with a grunt and stomped off to the downstairs bath, and Karen let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The boy trembled and wept in her arms, and something in her heart unwound and went warm. She lifted herself up off her knees, as they were starting to ache against the linoleum, and sat cross-legged on the floor, settling the tiny body against her own, and cupping the thick damp hair with one hand. To her surprise, she heard herself crooning low soft nonsense, the kind of stuff she’d laughed at her sister for, and realized she was rocking gently back and forth.

            Slowly, the little boy’s sobs dwindled into sniffles, and he curled his splayed limbs up into the curve of her body. The uninjured wing fluttered once, as though shaking itself clean, and folded neatly up against his back, catching her arm beneath it. It was very soft and very warm, and the feathers felt light and yielding on her skin.

            She didn’t know how long she sat like that, rocking and soothing the tiny trembling thing, but Bobby’s boots on the old floor shook her back into herself. He paused at the kitchen entrance and looked down at them with a troubled frown. She smiled wobbily back at him.

            “Poor little thing,” she said. She ran one hand down the uninjured wing, her touch light and almost reverent, and trailed through the long remidges. They were surprisingly stiff, but gave smoothly beneath her fingers. “He gonna be okay, you think?”

            “I dunno,” said Bobby shortly. He knelt back down beside them, his hands full of old Ace bandage. Karen noticed he didn’t seem to want to meet her gaze, but kept his eyes fixed on the wounded wing. “Did up the wing like I useta for my mom’s geese. Guess it’ll work okay.”

            The little boy whimpered again when Bobby touched the wing, but let him bind it, pressing up close to Karen’s warmth. Bobby’s touch, Karen knew, could be surprisingly gentle despite his gruff blue-collar mien, and though he always loudly averred he disliked children, she’d never had a second thought about his competence with her nieces and nephews.

            She drew her hands down the chubby legs, cupped the fat little feet. Tiny toes curled against her palm. _Adorable,_ she thought, suddenly understanding why her sister would play with her babies’ feet. “He’s cold,” she said, feeling the mud dry into crackling dirt beneath her fingers. “And dirty.”

            “Prob’ly needs a bath,” grunted Bobby. He stood up, gathering the detritus of muddy dish towels, and went to the sink, washing his hands. His back was ineloquent and stiff, and Karen shifted uncomfortably.

            “Bobby,” she said. Her nerves were humming and she felt halfway between happiness and terror. “D’you think – I mean – he’s not – normal, is he? I mean … human? Bobby?”

            “Human?” Bobby turned around; his eyes were fixed on the baby. He looked at the black feathered appendages. “Karen, you ever seen a baby with wings before?”

            “Yes,” faltered Karen. “At … at church.”

            Bobby made a face and balled up the dirty dish towels. He moved them around ineffectively for a second while he marshalled his thoughts, staring at the Formica. “I ain’t talking ‘bout them cherubs,” he said at last. “’Sides, I hear tell demons have wings, too. And the Devil, Bible says he was an angel once.”

            “He’s just a baby,” insisted Karen, arms tightening around the little body. “He can’t hurt anyone.”

            “You sure?” Bobby lifted his eyes to Karen’s then, and the expression on his face made her go cold.

            “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, voice rising. “Look at him, Bobby. _Look_ at him.” She pried the little face away from her neck and set the baby back on her lap, and obeying her own injunction, sat and _looked._

            Big, impossibly blue eyes, round cheeks, dimpled rosebud mouth, a quantity of black spiky hair and skin the color of pale marble … he was, Karen thought, a very beautiful baby, much better looking than any of her nieces and nephews, certainly more beautiful than any of the babies at church, even the ones painted on the ceiling that always watched her during Mass with such smug complacency. And there were those wings, those huge, black, shining wings, soft down fluttering wispily by his shoulders, bending and arching over him like a dark doorway. She looked and looked and looked, scarcely able to tear her eyes away, and the baby – whatever he was – sat back on his naked little bottom, and stared, unblinking and unsmiling, back up at her. She touched the soft black hair, the damp cheeks, ghosted her palm over the curve of those impossible iridescent wings, and let herself drown in the dark blue eyes.

            “Bobby,” she said, her voice trembling with an awed reverence. “Oh, Bobby. Look at him. Isn’t he a pretty boy?”

            “Hmph,” said Bobby. He crossed back over to them and helped Karen to her feet. “Guess I’ll be the judge of that. Give it here.”

            Karen hesitated. His misgivings, and his historical impatience with her sisters’ children, made her wary of letting him hold the baby. But then she thought about how gentle he could be, and how much she trusted him, and stood up, offering the boy to him.

            Bobby held the baby with the practiced proficiency of a well-seasoned uncle, and studied him carefully. The baby regarded Bobby with caution, no doubt allying this strange bearded man with the pain in his wing, but didn’t struggle or wriggle. He stared up at Bobby with the same wide-eyed and serious expression he’d given Karen.

            “Well,” said Bobby reluctantly, “it ain’t bad-lookin’ for a baby, I guess. Wings are right weird. And I think God might’ve got a bit overenthusiastic with the eye-pigment. Ain’t natural.”

            “Oh, Bobby,” chided Karen. She took the baby back and set him on her hip. He drew his little head back to regard her, somberly considering her with dark blue, black-lashed eyes. Damp hair stood up in muddy spikes on his head, and there was a wash of dirt on him that stretched from his cheek down his stomach. His pale skin was almost translucently white, contrasting shockingly against the black hair and wings. “He’s a _beautiful_ boy.”

            Bobby grunted again and watched her brush drying dirt off the pale skin. “You’re getting your floor all dirty,” he said.

            Karen laughed and hugged the baby close, and he put his arms around her neck, nestling his face into her shoulder. “Not his fault, poor little thing,” she said warmly.  “Poor wittle ookums.”

            Bobby made a noise commonly translated as “Hmph.”  Karen decided it would do her no good to indulge his cross mood.  She brushed some dried mud off the little boy’s leg.  “Guess I should clean him up, huh?” she said thoughtfully. “And he’ll need to eat something. I’m gonna draw him a bath. You go get him something to eat.”

            “Like what, bird seed?” asked Bobby. He looked unhappy.

           Karen frowned at him. There was no need for him to be sarcastic when all she was trying to do was take care of a poor abandoned baby. “Baby food, of course,” she said firmly. “All we’ve got’s Cream of Wheat that he could eat here, and that’ll be his breakfast.” She went through her mental pantry inventory and compared it to the sorts of meals she had watched her sister feed her babies.  It was not encouraging.  “Well, I guess you got to go down to the Gas ‘n Sip and get a baby cup and baby food and diapers and some onesies – “

            Bobby snorted and rolled his eyes. “Onesies? Right, and cut the backs out of them? How you gonna dress a baby with wings like that?” He gestured to the little boy, who regarded him gravely.  “I mean, wouldn’t a robe or a loincloth make more sense – “

            “Well, he has to wear _something,_ ” said Karen, turning towards the stairs. The baby made an interrogative noise, something between a chirp and a squeak, and it was _adorable._ She gave an ecstatic sigh and ruffled his messy hair. “Yes he does,” she crooned into the solemn, questioning face. “Poor wittle baby boy gots nothing on, no he doesn’t! And poor wittle sing’s all dirty, oh no!”

            “Karen,” said Bobby firmly. “Just you hold up a second.”

            Karen paused on the second step and looked back at her husband.  “Why?” she challenged.  “We can’t take care of this poor little thing? Is that what you’re saying, Bobby Singer?”

            “Now, you look here,” said Bobby.  He sounded very uncomfortable.  “This ain’t no normal baby, and it sure ain’t _our_ baby. I can’t just go down to the gas station and pick up stuff for it. I don’t know nothin’ about babies. This – thing – might belong to someone. We got to call – “

            “Bobby Singer, don’t you _dare_ call the police,” said Karen, alarmed, pausing with one foot on the fourth stair. “You don’t know what they’ll do to him.” She held the boy close; he stared gravely down at Bobby with his impossible blue eyes. “Send him to a laboratory,” said Karen, her voice trembling. “Or the FBI will dissect him, or cut off his pretty wings.”

            “Karen – “

            “Bobby,” said Karen pleadingly. “Look at him. Just _look_ at him. I found him out in the mud, all alone and naked and cold and crying and hurt. And you want to just hand him over to some stranger? Someone who won’t even try to take care of him properly?”

            Bobby sighed and scratched his head. He looked at the baby, cuddled close in his wife’s arms, and iterated all the reasons he would make a lousy father, and all the reasons Karen would make a wonderful mother, and grimaced. The baby stared back at him, wide-eyed, rose-lipped, pale and dirty and broken, and Bobby remembered the horrible things men like Bill Harvelle did to monsters and freaks and things that didn’t look human. It looked so dangerous and innocent all at once, and Bobby knew he was in way over his head.  He picked up his cap from the floor and put it on his head with a resigned sigh.

             “Okay,” he said, defeated. “Okay. But _you_ go to the Gas ‘n Sip and get all that baby crap. I don’t know what I’m doing with all that.”

            Karen gave him a suspicious look as he approached and held out his arms to the infant. The baby boy didn’t hesitate, reaching for Bobby trustingly, though those big blue eyes were very serious. Karen let him go, watching her husband position the little body awkwardly on his own hip, looking down into that unwavering stare. One big, black wing fluttered with the rustle of stiff feathers, then was still.

            “Okay,” she said slowly. “I’ll get some money out of your wallet and take the Chevy to the Gas ‘n Sip to see what they got that he can use.” She stepped down onto the landing. “But Bobby Singer, don’t you even _think_ about calling no one.”

            “I won’t,” said Bobby, still staring into the little boy’s eyes. He glanced up at his wife, glaring down at him from the step, and quirked her a little smile, half-hidden beneath his beard. “I promise,” he said.

            “And I don’t want to smell whiskey on your breath when I get back,” Karen continued firmly, striding past him and unlocking the front door.  She glanced out; the rain had stopped, and the road was deserted. Good. “Half drunk’s no way to watch a baby.”

            “Ain’t it? Sounds good to me,” grumbled Bobby. Little fingers touched his beard, poking and prodding at his face, and Bobby looked down. The baby was studying Bobby’s beard with a little frown, as though he had never seen facial hair before. _Then again, maybe he ain’t,_ thought Bobby. “Go on, git. I’ll clean it up. You go get it some stuff.” With half a thought to their checking account, he cautioned, “Don’t spend too much, now.”

            “Bobby Singer, you are _not_ bathing that precious boy,” protested Karen, shocked.

            “Aw, hush,” said Bobby, grinning lopsidedly at her. “It’s like bathing a dog, ain’t it? Get it wet, soap it up, rinse it, dry it with a towel. And don’t drown it,” he added, as though giving a great concession.

            “Be gentle,” she insisted, feeling very worried. “He’s hurt.”

            “I know,” said Bobby, offended. “I know. Ain’t I seen your sister giving all them rugrats of hers baths before? I ain’t gonna break him anymore than he’s already broke.” He looked back down at the baby, who was frowning at his buttons and poking them with one small finger. “Just go on and git, will ya?” he said. “Bet you anything this thing’s gonna start howling for his supper in a minute.”

            Karen took a deep breath. He was probably right. Her sister had told her that babies ate all the time, and who knew what he’d end up buying if she sent Bobby to the Gas ‘n Sip alone! Beer and Cheetos, probably. “Fine.” She dug her husband’s keys and wallet out of the jacket hanging by the door. She jingled the keys nervously in her hands and looked back at him. He had balanced the little boy on his hip, and the two were regarding each other with equal parts doubt and fascination. “Bobby,” she said, nervously wringing her hands. “Be careful with him, okay? Please?”

            “I’ll be careful,” said Bobby gently.

            “Okay,” she said, still hesitant. Was it all right to leave him?  Bobby was so competent, but …

            But, no.  She could trust Bobby.

            With a last longing look into the baby boy’s blue eyes, she gave the tot a little wave, and went out.

            Bobby watched her close and latch the door behind her, and heard her footsteps down the front porch, crunching in the gravel. The rain had stopped and there was no more thunder. The house creaked a little, and there was the sigh of air from the broken heater vent on the floor by his feet. The little boy shifted in his arms, touched Bobby’s beard inquisitively, and then pointed at the door and said in a little piping voice, “Oomeh? Amma baba?”

            “Sorry, kid, I don’t speak angel baby,” said Bobby. “Or demon baby, or monster baby, or any baby for that matter.”

            He and the child stared at each other soberly for a moment, listening to Karen start the truck and pull out. Then Bobby sighed and went into the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed a number, having to hold it away from the baby’s inquisitive and very dirty fingers. He tucked the phone under his chin and shifted the baby on his hip again, glancing down into the little round face. Big blue eyes stared seriously back.

           “Don’t look at me like that,” said Bobby. “I ain’t callin’ the cops. Karen’s right, wouldn’t do you no good.”

            The outgoing call trilled once, twice, three times, and Bobby wondered if the answering machine would pick up. Then with a click he heard a gruff, “Whadda you want?”

            “Rufus,” said Bobby. He looked down at the baby, who had started to play with his beard again. “Buddy. I need a solid.”


	3. 3

 

            Bobby knew much more about caring for animals than he did about caring for babies, but he figured they couldn’t be all that different. They were both wordless, primal, hungry organic machines that pooped a lot and fought you when you tried to help them. It was a frustrating exercise dealing with irrational and stubborn creatures, and Bobby knew his temper sometimes got the best of him, making him surly and loud and, more often than not, a little heavy-handed.  It was for this reason he had decided he was unfit to own so much as a budgie.

            He was pleasantly surprised when he plunked the little boy into a tub full of warm, soapy water, and only got contented crooning and a little splashing in return. The baby boy seemed perfectly happy sloshing around in the tub, and was gratifyingly fascinated by the bubbles.  Bobby carefully lathered up the soft little body, paying particular attention to fingers and toes, and the only thing that seemed to startle the baby was when he dumped clean water on his head to wet his hair. The little boy started, blinking the soapy water away, and looked at Bobby reproachfully. Bobby chuckled and wiped the boy’s face with a dry wash cloth.

            “Put them wings in the water,” he said, scooping up more water with the old cottage cheese container and gently wetting them down. Rivulets of mud and sand dribbled off the glossy black feathers and dripped into the bath water. The little boy patted some bubbles with his palms, then struck the water hard.

            “Eee ba ba ba,” he said. “Mmm.”

            “If you say so,” said Bobby. He gently loosened the Ace bandage around the broken wing and poured water over it. “That hurt?”

            “Ah ma ma ma,” said the baby seriously. The wing flickered, but didn’t twitch away as Bobby carefully rinsed and washed it.  He lifted his hand out of the water and regarded the soapy bubbles on his wrist thoughtfully. “Ee ba ba ba.”

            “That’s what I think,” agreed Bobby. “Lemme get this mud off.”

            “Meeee baaaahh.” The little boy looked up at Bobby. Water clung to his dark lashes and made his blue eyes seem even bluer. He pointed to the plastic tub. “Ooo-ah?” he asked.

            Bobby looked at the tub, then at the little boy.  Didn’t seem to be any harm in it, and he could always find another clean plastic container. Karen kept everything. “Sure, why not?” he said. He handed the cottage cheese container to the boy. “Knock yourself out, kid.”

            He finished soaping and rinsing the little boy until even the wings ran clear, and the boy turned his solemn gaze to the cottage cheese container. He turned it around in his tiny dimpled hands, studied the writing and the picture of the cow on the front, then put it over his face and spoke into it – not, Bobby thought, as though he were playing with it, but more like he was experimenting with its resonance. Then he spent a good five minutes filling it with water and dumping it out, all the while frowning with concentration. _This,_ Bobby thought, _is one damn serious baby._ He wondered what Rufus would do when he saw him. He wondered what he was supposed to tell Rufus the baby whatsit had done. Then he wondered if any other Hunter had ever experienced something quite like this, and if anyone had recorded it for posterity. Someone ought to. Monster babies showing up in salvage yards in the rain? Could probably write a whole book on that.

“I should be taking notes on you or something,” said Bobby. There was a pad of yellow paper in the bottom drawer of the vanity. He pulled it out and rooted around in the Q-tip boxes and plastic-wrapped maxi pads and old razor caps for a pen, but couldn’t find one. He made a face at the paper, then at the baby. The baby looked up at him seriously.

            “Oomeh?” he said, and pointed at the yellow pad of paper. “Ah ba ba ba ba?”

            “Hm,” said Bobby, and then smiled.

           

            By the time Karen got back to the house and put her scanty purchases in the kitchen, it was very late. The storm had knocked out the power at the Gas ‘n Sip, and for some reason that meant that Harb couldn’t use the register, or even his pocket calculator, to figure out what Karen owed him for the sippy cup, diapers, Sioux Falls Canaries onesies, baby socks, and two jars of surprisingly expensive Gerber baby food.

            When the power finally had flickered back on, there was a line of irritated customers behind Karen, clamoring for Harb to step on it. Only the short, shaggy-haired young man standing two clients back from her seemed amused, unhurriedly sucking on a lollipop and holding his purchase of three bags of expired Easter candy.

            Harb had raised a curious eyebrow at the nature of her procurement, and looked pointedly at her waist.  Karen had blushed and only muttered, “Baby shower,” and the clerk let it ride. Karen felt as though everyone behind her in line was now judging her for purchasing baby shower items at a gas station so late at night. She thought about seeing if the Gas ‘n Sip had wrapping paper too, just to make it look more realistic, but decided she’d spent enough time away from the baby, and people would just have to talk.

            The drive home had been harrowing. The streets were wet and choked with potholes, and she counted three dismembered deer corpses on her way back that she was certain had not been there when she’d left. Remembering the red eyes and low animal growl in the salvage yard, she parked as close to the house as she could and sprinted up the front steps, slamming and locking the door behind her. Bobby said there weren’t wolves in South Dakota any more, but you never knew, and something big had certainly been lurking around in the yard.

            Karen shucked her sopping sweater and kicked off her wet and muddy shoes. Normally she would have washed and dried them immediately – and also swept and mopped the floors – but she had spent her entire shopping trip and drive worrying about the tiny precious angel baby in her house, and was very anxious to check on him.

            She heard her husband’s voice upstairs, echoey in the tile bathroom, and little splashy noises. Wondering what could be taking him so long to bathe a small child, a little nervous on the baby’s behalf, and relieved she couldn’t hear any screaming or thrashing, she trooped upstairs with a diaper, a onesie, and a pair of socks. Within moments, she could only stand transfixed at the sight of her gruff, grumpy, blue-collar Bobby making origami boats out of yellow lined note paper, and floating them in the tub while the little boy picked them up one by one, fixing them with fierce concentration.

            “And this one,” Bobby was saying calmly to the little boy, “is a tug boat. See? The cabin is in front and it don’t have a sail.”

            “Ah wah,” said the little boy, waving the cottage cheese container solemnly. His left wing moved in the water, sloshing the boats so they bobbed up and down in the suds. He watched with flattering interest as Bobby showed him how the tug boat guided the other little origami boats around the tub, raising his uninjured wing out of the way when a crooked sailboat wobbled past. He looked up at Karen then, blue eyes bright and glittering, and the little rosebud mouth twitched sideways – not a smile, but not a frown, either. “Amma baba,” he said, pointing at her, and Bobby turned, startled, and blushed at her smile.

            “Bobby Singer,” she said, “you are a man of many talents.”

            “Well,” said Bobby gruffly. “I learned the origami when I was in Japan.”

            “I didn’t mean the origami,” said Karen warmly, leaning down and kissing the crown of his head. She pulled the price tag off the onesie with a sigh. “Highway robbery, what they charge for these things.”

            “Guess I’ll cut holes in the back for his wings,” said Bobby, glancing at it. He’d already thought of a way to get shirts to fit over the odd appendages. It would just take some scissors, needle and thread, buttons, and ingenuity.  He shifted on the floor and his left knee popped. “Damn, this tile’s hard on my knees. Get a towel, will you, love?”

            Together they lifted the little boy, drenched and surprisingly heavy, out of the tub and into a clean towel. They soon discovered it took both of them – and two towels - to properly dry out the wings. The boy flinched a little when Karen carefully patted the right wing dry, but he didn’t make any other protest at all. He did fix her with an odd look when she put the diaper on him, but whether that was his unfamiliarity with the garment, or the fact it took her three tries to get the tabs to stick, neither she nor Bobby could determine.

            Bobby stood him up on the tile floor, though the chubby little legs couldn’t support his weight, and Karen struggled the onesie onto him. Over the wet dark hair, the arms jimmied into the little arm-holes, and then, to their surprise, the wings seemed to dissolve through the fabric, flaring out around the soft blue cotton with no rips, tears, or holes at all. Karen was too tired to be anything but relieved, but Bobby frowned at the solid-feeling wings protruding through the definitely solid onesie with suspicion. Granted, it was a time-saver, but wings that were there, and then not there, but still there? This was most definitely not right.

            At last Karen managed to stuff all ten toes into the fuzzy baby socks, and she ran her fingers through the thick dark hair until the spikes and cowlicks were all pointing in one general direction. “There,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Not bad for two amateurs, huh?”

            “Right,” grunted Bobby, heaving himself to his feet and helping her up. “Now let’s feed ‘im and see if he sleeps like he’s supposed to.”

            Karen had vague recollections of her sister’s complaints concerning babies and their sleeping habits, but was too excited by the proximity of an actual, real-life baby in her house to want to discourage her husband. She was sure the baby was hungry, and would eat every bite; he seemed like such a good little boy. They trooped dutifully downstairs, and Karen held the baby on her lap while Bobby tried to spoon pureed pumpkin and rice cereal into the unwilling mouth.

            After ten unsuccessful minutes and five admonitions from Karen to “watch his language around the baby,” Bobby stepped back with a grunt and looked at the decidedly full jars of baby food.

            “He got more in his hair than his mouth,” he said discontentedly. “Maybe he ain’t hungry.”

            “He must be,” said Karen worriedly, wiping at the baby food with a damp face cloth. “Aren’t babies always hungry? Here, let me try.”

            Another frustrating five minutes passed, and finally the little boy screwed his mouth up tight, glared at them, and thrust at the spoon so hard it clattered to the floor, splattering orange and white blobs all over the beleaguered linoleum. Bobby swore again, and Karen was too tired to admonish him.

            “Maybe he’s thirsty,” she suggested timidly, feeling decidedly more sympathetic towards her sister, and mindful of Bobby’s quick temper.

            Bobby sighed and wiped the splatters of pumpkin from his beard. The baby put the cottage cheese container to his mouth again and said softly, “Aaah mah mah. Baaaaah.” Bobby couldn’t help but think that this was the most stubborn, and yet even-tempered, baby he’d ever seen. Even after a good fifteen minutes of trying to force that nasty goop into his mouth, he sat still and quiet on Bobby’s lap. Their attempts hadn’t even appeared to bother him – he was more interested in the plastic container.

            “Milk?” Bobby said, a little desperately. “Put something sweet in it, like molasses. Then he’ll drink it.”

            Karen dug around in the pantry. “I’m out of molasses,” she said. “I made that gingerbread, remember? But I have honey. Think that’ll do?”

            “Can’t hurt.”

            Karen mixed the honey and milk together and carefully screwed on the cap of the sippy cup. Bobby was skeptical, but when Karen offered it to the baby, he instantly tipped it back and drank it down, milk dribbling stickily down his chin.

            “Aw,” said Karen, all irritation vanishing at the sight. “Look at him, isn’t he precious!”

            “We’re all gonna need a damn bath now,” grumbled Bobby. The baby had dribbled honey milk all over his arm in his enthusiasm, and was still sucking desperately at the sippy cup’s opening, getting the last possible drop. “Here, love, gimme a clean washcloth, okay?”

            They mopped up the pumpkin and milk as best they could, washed down the baby’s sticky, milky face, and trailed tiredly back upstairs. Bobby wondered how his mother had managed it, considering what his father had been like. He couldn’t remember Dad ever lifting a finger to help out with housework or childcare – probably a good thing, all things considered, but just the same, bath time and mealtime with one infant and two adults had about worn him out.

            He knew some babies didn’t sleep through the night, which was a discouraging thought in itself. He was already calculating how many steps from their bed in the master bedroom it would take to get to the guest room bed when Karen walked with the little winged baby into their bedroom, and sat on the edge of their bed, crooning softly at the little boy and ruffling his soft black hair.  Bobby stopped short, horrified, and said, “Now wait just a damn minute!”

            “Bobby,” Karen pleaded, and then the baby yawned – a big, oval, closed-eyed, shuddering yawn, and rubbed his eyes adorably with dimpled fists. Bobby felt uncomfortably protective and tried to tamp it down. “He’s all alone, I’m sure he’s scared, he don’t want to sleep alone – “

            “Karen – “

            “Please, Bobby?” She turned her baby blues on him, and the baby turned his baby blues on him, and Bobby felt his will crumble.

            “Goddammit,” he muttered, and toed off his boots. “Okay. But not in bed with us. I’m likely to roll over on him and bust his other wing.”

            “Pull that old steamer trunk in here,” said Karen happily, cuddling the little boy close. His left wing flapped a little, and he yawned again and put his arms around her neck. “The one in the guest room. I’ll put the feather tick and satin blanket in there. That’ll be comfy.” She rocked her body back and forth as Bobby stumped dejectedly out to get the steamer trunk from under the guest room window. “He’s just a sweepy wittle boy, isn’t he? Oh yes, he so pwecious!”

            “Amma baba,” said the baby sleepily, and yawned again.

            “Oh, god,” muttered Bobby under his breath. At least if the baby had been howling in the guest room, he might’ve been able to fake being asleep until Karen handled it. Now he’d have no excuse but to be wide awake the moment the little pipsqueak started to cry.

            He took a quick swipe at the dusty trunk with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, already damp from the bath and spattered with baby food, and sent an Atheist’s prayer that Rufus would get there first thing in the morning. This was so far out of his purview that he felt very lost and nervous. A normal baby would have been bad enough, but a baby with wings? Rufus knew so much about weird things – monsters and inhuman things – he would know what to do with the baby.

            But just as he grasped the trunk by the handle to pull it away from the window, a movement down in the salvage yard below caught his attention, and he paused and moved the curtain aside to better see.

            Something that looked like a very large, very black dog appeared to be slinking around, ducking behind auto bodies and keeping in the shadows. Bobby accidentally rapped the window with his knuckle, and a head turned and looked up at him. Two glowing red eyes stared into his, and Bobby’s heart went cold.

            “That sure ain’t no poodle,” he muttered. “Better get the shotgun.” He dragged the trunk out of the room as quickly as he could, glad he’d made all those rock salt cartridges.


	4. 4

 

            Bobby didn’t want Karen to worry, so he didn’t mention the large animal in the salvage yard. She seemed so happy to cuddle the baby until his blue eyes drooped shut, and when she had gently placed him in the trunk, to hover over him, singing old-fashioned lullabies as he lay quietly in his makeshift bed. It would have been a shame to dampen her spirits. But when the little boy had fallen asleep, Karen crawled happily into bed with the most beatific smile on her face, and Bobby felt very uneasy. She couldn’t possibly think they’d be able to keep the little thing … could she? No, of course she couldn’t. Karen wasn’t an unreasonable woman. She must know better than that.

             He waited until she drifted off, listening to the two of them slumbering in the dark, quiet bedroom – Karen with the slightest glottal hint of a feminine snore, and the baby’s faster, shallower breath, fetching up every now and then into what sounded like a contented sigh.  Bobby quietly slipped out of bed, got his shotgun, and crept down the stairs.

            He shook deicing salt in all of the windows and doors and around the vents, just like Rufus had told him to. He hoped Karen wouldn’t hassle him for making a mess when she got up. Then he loaded his shotgun with his special rock salt cartridges, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and sat all night by the back door, listening carefully for any sounds of movement.

            The night was beautifully quiet. The storm had moved on, and all he could hear was the faint drip-drip-drip of rain trickling down the gutters. There was no noise from upstairs, which he took as a good sign. Maybe this was one of those sleep-through-the-night babies. That was definitely a point in its favor.

            He nodded off around two, and came to with a start, wondering if he’d only dreamed the sound of large toenails clicking on the back porch. He stayed awake after that, and swept up the salt when the sun rose.

            He was making a pot of coffee when he heard movement upstairs, creaking on the old floorboards, and his wife’s voice, light and happy, though he couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying. Then he heard that bright piping voice call out seriously: “Amma baba. Eee bawawa aaaaah!” and he couldn’t stop the smile. Damned if that thing wasn’t at least a little endearing.

            He had just poured his first cup when Karen came down the stairs with the little boy in her arms. His wings were tucked close to his back, and the Ace bandage had come loose, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. He fixed Bobby with the same unblinking blue-eyed stare as before, and when Karen reached for an empty mug, he leaned out of her embrace towards Bobby, his arms extended.

            “Eeeemee amma?” he said gravely.

            “Git over here, pipsqueak,” said Bobby gruffly. He put his mug down and gathered the little boy into his arms. He felt the boy’s body instantly grasp onto his own, and the big black wings fluttered once, rustling, and folded against the little back. “Well, I reckon you all slept good.”

            “I reckon I did,” said Karen; she looked worried. “Bobby, there’s not a drop of pee or poop in that diaper.”

            “Good,” said Bobby automatically; changing diapers was not something he was good at. Then he realized what she’d said, and exclaimed, “What?”

            “Nothing,” she said, dumping sugar in her coffee and shaking her head. “Not a thing. Dry as a chip.”

            “Well, that ain’t right,” said Bobby. “Every baby I ever seen’s been a pooping machine.”

            “My sister told me that her youngest went through twenty diapers a day when he was little,” said Karen, stirring her coffee so aggressively that it sloshed a bit out of the cup. “You don’t think he’s – sick?”

            Bobby frowned. He wasn’t sure about babies, but he knew that was a very bad sign in puppies. “Goddammit,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know what to do with angel babies. Constipated angel babies are worse.”

            “Oh, so now you think he’s an angel?” Karen sipped her coffee. Despite her worry, her eyes twinkled at him.

            “Don’t go puttin’ words in my mouth,” grumbled Bobby. He ruffled the little boy’s hair; it was thick and soft to the touch, and stood up like fiber optic cable all over his head. “Could still be a devil, or an alien or something, or some kind of monster.”

            “No, he’s not,” crooned Karen. She took the baby back and cuddled him one-armed on her hip. Bobby was amused to note that the baby squirmed a little trying to get comfortable, and looked up at her with a puzzled frown. “He’s just a pwecious wittle baby angel boy, isn’t he?”

            “Eeee ah wah,” said the precious little baby angel boy irritably. He stared at Karen’s mug, and abruptly thrust his hand into the steaming coffee.

            “Balls!” said Bobby; Karen sloshed coffee all over herself, the baby, and the floor.

            “Did he burn himself?” asked Karen anxiously, putting down the mug. They looked at the baby. He was frowning at his hand, watching the hot black liquid steam off of it. He put a finger to his lips and tasted it, then drew back with a grimace and a shudder. Bobby chuckled in spite of himself.

            “Serves ya right, pipsqueak,” he grunted. He took the baby and said, “Go on upstairs and change. I’ll get this cleaned up.”

            “How did that not burn him?” Karen demanded, dabbing at the baby’s hand with her nightgown. “That coffee was scalding!”

            “You do realize this ain’t a normal baby, don’t you, love?” said Bobby, turning the little boy around in his arms. He could feel the hot coffee steaming off the onesie, but the baby didn’t even seem to notice; he had been distracted by Bobby’s cap. “Go change. I’ll clean him up. And then,” he said, fixing his wife with a stern look, “we’re gonna talk about what to do with him.”

            “We’re keeping him,” said Karen firmly, heading towards the stairs and glaring at him over her shoulder.

            “What?” spluttered Bobby to her retreating back, but she turned around, her head high and her shoulders set.

            “We’re keeping him, Robert Singer!” she called down the stairs behind her, and marched into their room and slammed the door. Bobby groaned. Just his luck.

            “Balls! Goddammit.” He looked down at the baby, who had managed to pull Bobby’s cap off and put the brim in his mouth. “Here, give it back, you.”

            The baby let him take the cap and watched Bobby put it back on. He tipped his head to the side, as if considering nesting in toroidal spaces, and said thoughtfully: “Aaah wah bah.”

            “You are an odd one,” said Bobby irritably. “Now I gotta clean up your mess, dammit.”

            He took the little boy to the sink and, his mind on getting the coffee cleaned up, unthinkingly set him down on the edge of the kitchen counter. As soon as he let go of the little body, it wavered, unbalanced, and started to fall off the edge. His large black wings flared out and pulsed, righting himself, but knocking over the dish rack and the pie plate, sweeping clean dishes, the teapot, and half a boysenberry pie onto the floor with a crash.

            Bobby jumped back with an angry and frustrated oath. The baby looked up at him curiously, wings stretched wide and pulsing a little to keep his balance.  One of the remidges brushed against a vase and knocked it over.

            “Goddammit!” said Bobby. He reached for a dish towel, remembered that the baby might fall, or knock something else over, reached for the baby, and slipped in the mess, cracking his elbow on the corner of the Formica. It was too much, and the sudden shock of pain made Bobby see red. Without thinking, he grabbed the baby by the arm and threw his mug so hard into the sink it shattered.

            He shouted: “Look at what you did!” And then he shook the baby, hard.  The baby fluttered his wings, righted himself, and cocked his head.

            “Amma baba?” asked the baby curiously.

            Bobby drew up, appalled. His fingers were digging deep into the baby boy’s flesh, so deep he could feel the tiny twig of bone in there. His hand looked very big and callused and strong wrapped around the little arm. All the anger was suddenly rushed away by a wave of horrible guilt.

            The baby stared intently at him, his blue eyes seeming even bluer, the serious face watching him carefully. He pointed one chubby finger at the floor and said gravely: “Dook.”

            “Yes,” said Bobby weakly, swallowing heavily. He loosened his grip around the fat little arm. The baby didn’t seem to notice. “You … we made a mess.”

            “Dook,”

            “Yes,” said Bobby. His hands were trembling and all he could see in his mind was his father angrily advancing with a belt, smelling of cheap whiskey. “Look. Big mess.”

            “Dook.” The baby looked at the floor and tilted his head to the side. “Dook. Amma baba.”

            “It’s okay,” said Bobby, gently picking up the baby, mindful of the wings this time. As soon as he balanced the baby on his hip, the wings folded in. Bobby noticed the right wing didn’t seem to be broken anymore. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I break everything I touch. I shouldn’t of let go of you.” He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, trying to slow his heart down. “Okay.”

            “Tay.” The baby regarded the mess with a certain complacency. Bobby sighed, and gently put him on the floor, well away from the broken dishes, well away from him and his big ham hands and his legacy of temper and violence. He knelt and started picking up the pieces. The smell of spilled coffee and pie made his stomach growl, but he felt sick.

            To do the child credit, he didn’t interfere with what Bobby was doing, but only watched with serious blue eyes as Bobby picked up the shattered remains of last night’s dishes and the ruined pie. When Bobby wet a dish towel and mopped up the sticky remnants, the baby leaned forward and put one chubby finger on the damp linoleum. “Mmm,” he said. “Ah ma ma ma.”

            “Okay,” said Bobby. He was still very rattled. “Okay. Everything’s okay. See? All gone.”

            “Tay,” said the little boy, and looked up at Bobby. His onesie and one sock were stained with coffee, but he didn’t look any worse for wear. In fact, Bobby thought, he looked very tiny and fragile, and those big, dark blue eyes were full of curiosity and a kind of innocent calm. Bobby threw the dirty dish towel in the sink and reached with trembling, hesitant hands out to him.

            To Bobby’s amazement, the boy trustingly reached back, and Bobby pulled him onto his lap and put a shaky arm around his back, grateful and terrified.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s not your fault. It was my fault. I break everything I touch.” This was what he was afraid of. He would always be afraid of it. He was immeasurably glad Karen hadn’t seen him, hadn’t seen him slip into what his upbringing demanded of him.

            “Mmm mah mah mah,” said the little boy. He pulled himself up onto Bobby’s chest and put his little arms around the man’s neck. Bobby could feel the warm gust of breath, the little voice’s vibration against his cheek. It was beautiful and he didn’t deserve it. “Aaahh bah bah bah bah bah.”

            “I’m sorry,” he said again, gathering the little boy to himself. The black wings rustled softly and brushed against his hands; he could feel the little fat feet pressing into his thighs and the spiky hair on his cheek. The baby smelled like coffee and ozone. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”

            The boy was quiet, only holding on to Bobby’s neck with his small arms, unquestioning and innocent. Bobby knew he could technically excuse his outburst on his lack of sleep and stress and not enough caffeine. But he didn’t. He knew better.

            “Pipsqueak,” he said shakily. The baby sat back on his lap and looked up at him gravely. “We got to get you home before something bad happens.”

            “Eee wah,” the boy agreed solemnly, and pulled off Bobby’s cap again.


	5. 5

 

            Karen was so intent upon getting the little boy fed his breakfast that she glossed over the broken dishes, and only remarked that she was glad the baby hadn’t gotten hurt. _Me too,_ thought Bobby, remembering the give of soft flesh and the little stick of bone beneath his fingers. Fortunately, there was not even an imprint of his grip on the child’s arm – not a red mark or a bruise. Bobby concluded it was made of tougher stuff than he and his mother had been. He was glad. He, at least, had had school friends to sign his casts.

            His wife was sitting in her chair at the kitchen table with the little boy in her lap, clean onesie and socks being dribbled on by the sippy cup’s drips as the baby eagerly drank down another helping of milk sweetened with honey. The morning sun slanted dustily across the room, lighting upon her pale hair and plain dress, and Bobby watched her smile and coo and cuddle the little boy, who seemed determined to get every last drop out of it. Bobby stirred and stirred and stirred the Cream of Wheat, trying to cool it down, though he was beginning to suspect that he could pour it boiling down the child’s throat and it wouldn’t affect him at all. _Then again,_ he thought, _something was strong enough to break that right wing._

            The little boy had just figured out how to unscrew the lid of the cup and drip the last few drops on Karen’s lap when Bobby heard a car pull in to the front drive. Karen raised her head and frowned. “Who is that?” she asked suspiciously, getting up with the baby in her arms. The boy inverted the cup and put it on his head.

            Bobby glanced out the kitchen window and saw an old Ford pickup rattle to a stop. _Thank god,_ he thought, and said with forced casualness: “It’s just Rufus.”

            “Rufus Turner?” Karen’s look of suspicion deepened. “What does that disreputable old Hunter want?”

            “Karen – “

            “I’d better hide the baby,” said Karen quickly, heading to the stairs. “Tell Rufus I’m feeling poorly, will you? I don’t want him to –“

            “Karen.”

            Karen turned and looked worriedly at her husband. Bobby took a deep breath.

            “Rufus is here ‘cause I asked him to come.”

            Karen sucked in a sharp breath, and her eyes narrowed. “You told him,” she said, her voice shaking.

            “I had to, love,” said Bobby gently. “This baby ain’t normal. And better Rufus than some other Hunter.”

            “You lied to me.” She sounded very hurt but not, Bobby was relieved to note, angry. She looked more frightened than anything else.

            “I did,” Bobby admitted gently. “I’m sorry. At least I didn’t call the cops, right? Or Bill Harvelle? It’s just Rufus. But look. We gotta do something about this angel baby business before something bad happens. Okay?”

            Karen stood on the bottom step, holding the little boy tight in her arms. Bobby could see that she was trembling. She looked at the door, then at Bobby, then back at the door. He hated seeing her this frightened.

The little boy held out the cup to Bobby and said, “Eee ah mah mah? Dook? Tay?”

            They could all hear Rufus’ boots crunching on the gravel, then stomping up the front stairs of the porch. Karen flinched with every step.

            Bobby said, “Fix the li’l tyke some more milk, love. And I think the Cream of Wheat’s cool enough for him now.” When Karen didn’t respond but only stared with blank dread at the kitchen door, Bobby said a little more firmly: “Okay?”

            “Tay,” said the baby. He looked back at Karen. “Oomeh?” he said, looking concerned. “Amma baba?”

            Karen swallowed and looked down into the baby’s face, studying the dark blue eyes intently. The little boy stared back, then reached up with two fingers and lightly touched Karen on the forehead. She jerked back as though she’d been shocked, then gave a shaky smile.

            “Okay,” she said. “But I’m not giving this precious boy to Rufus. I’m not, Bobby.”

            “We’ll figure something out,” said Bobby.

            “I’m _not.”_ Karen stared her husband down. Bobby only nodded, and she lowered her eyes.

            Rufus knocked on the door, and Bobby opened it. Rufus stood on the stoop, one arm propped up on the jamb, looking up at Bobby through his brows. His dark skin gleamed a little in the morning light, and the sun slanted across his short hair; it looked like a halo. Bobby hoped that was a good sign.

“Rufus.” Bobby held out his hand. He was at once frightened and relieved. “Glad to see you, buddy.”

            “Bobby.” Rufus shook Bobby’s hand distractedly. He stepped into the house, saw Karen hovering by the stairs, and nodded politely. “Karen,” he said, but his eyes were fixed on the baby’s wings, draped comfortably across her arms. “So that’s it,” he said, and took a step forward.

            Karen backed up. “He’s a boy,” she said shakily, and tightened her grip.

            Rufus froze, his face unreadable.  He turned into the kitchen and placed his bag on the table. “All right then,” he said equably to the linoleum. “No problem. Congratulations. It’s a boy.” He glanced at Bobby, black eyes cautious. “Got some coffee, man?”

            “Comin’ up,” said Bobby. He gave Karen an apologetic look and took a fresh mug out of the cabinet.

            Rufus stood with his hands folded in front of him and kept his eyes fixed on the baby, who in turn kept his big blue eyes fixed with equal curiosity upon him. Karen walked cautiously into the kitchen, holding on to the baby as tight as she could, watching Rufus with obvious suspicion. Then the boy’s little pink mouth twitched sideways and he dropped the cup and lurched forward, arms outstretched. Rufus grinned.

            “How about that,” he said. He took a couple of careful steps towards Karen and held out his hands. “Karen,” he said. “May I?”

            Karen looked conflicted, but glanced past Rufus to Bobby, who nodded once. The baby was stretching towards Rufus now, his little fingers opening and closing, making little grunting noises as he strained away from Karen’s protective embrace. At last she handed the baby over with a tremulous, “Watch the wings, now.”

            It was not a needless caution. As soon as the boy was in Rufus’ arms, the wings flared out, rustling sharply, glossy in the morning sunlight. They shook twice as though to sort their feathers, then folded back in against the boy’s back.

            He and Rufus stared hard at each other, Rufus examining the base of the wings as they protruded through the onesie, running one hand up over the curve of the right wing and thoughtfully playing with one of the remiges, still meeting that unflinching blue stare with a smile. Finally the baby said firmly: “Dook. Oomah ababababa waah. Tay.”

            “He say anything comprehensible?” asked Rufus.

            “Well,” said Bobby, glancing at Karen, who was wringing her hands. “He sort of said ‘look’ and ‘okay’ to me this morning when he trashed the kitchen. But no, nothing that sounds like English.”

            “Prob’ly a good sign,” said Rufus. He ran his hand through the little boy’s spiky black hair. “A demon’d speak English.” Karen gave a squeak of objection, and Rufus grinned at her. “It’s okay, Karen.”

            “Tay,” said the little boy. He turned and looked back at Karen, his hand still in Rufus’ mustache. He pointed at her. “Amma baba.”

            Rufus shifted the little body against his own. The baby was distracted by his earring, and poked at it curiously. “Do he eat, shit, piss?”

            “Rufus,” remonstrated Karen automatically.

            Bobby said, “No. Drinks milk, that’s all.”

            “You said his wing was broke,” said Rufus, looking at them. “Which one?”

            “The right one,” said Karen.

            “Think it’s all healed up,” said Bobby. “He don’t seem to have any trouble with it today.”

            “He sleep?”

            “All night,” said Karen. She added diffidently, “He’s a good little boy.”

            “Okay then,” said Rufus. He smiled down into the serious little face. “Show me where this li’l guy touched down and let’s get to work.”

            “Oh, man,” sighed Bobby. “I never even thought to check that.”

            “Don’t worry, man, you’re just a beginner,” grinned Rufus. “Come on.”

            They trooped out the back porch door into the sunshine. The salvage yard lay before them, mellow in the morning light, picked out here and there with sparkles of broken glass or shattered mirrors. The fence surrounding it was dark with rain, and high white clouds tore over their heads, speckled with tiny black birds.

            “So where did you find him?” Rufus asked Karen.

            “Back that way,” she said, pointing to the old garage.  There was a sheet of standing water in one of the roof slats, shining like a mirror.

            “Right, then,” said Rufus, and hitching the baby more firmly onto his hip, he stepped down the porch into the yard.

            There were standing puddles of water everywhere. Tussocks of grass sprouted like small tropical islands in the mud, and as they picked their way through the morass, they could hear the occasional thrum of a frog.  The piles old cars gleamed rustily in the bright morning sun, twisted hulks mocking the forms they had once proudly sported – Electra, Valiant, Conestoga.

            One particularly elderly pile was covered in morning glories, which spread their sky-blue petals with wanton abandon. The baby reached out to them with an urgent cry of: “Aaah! Amma! Amma baba! Eeeeaahh oooowaah!” And Rufus stopped and let him touch the blossoms with little curious fingers, poking at the pistils and stamens and getting yellow powdery pollen on his hands, which he regarded with a frown.

            Karen led them around the back of the old garage. “It was dark and raining cats and dogs,” she said. “I might not be able to tell you exactly where I found him. Besides, there was a coyote or something, and I didn’t want to hang around.”

            “A coyote?” said Bobby, remembering the beast he’d seen from the window, but when they went round the corner of the garage, they all stopped and stared.

            The blast radius extended from the water-filled crater about twenty-five feet in all directions, and had cleared out all debris – hulks of old cars, parts, and weeds were demolished, and the surrounding remains blistered and blackened. Rufus silently handed the baby back to Karen, and he and Bobby crept into the circle of wet soot.

            When they got to the middle crater, Rufus took up a stray piece of rebar and poked around in the puddle. He rolled up his sleeves and groped in the muddy water, finally pulling out a small square stone.  He shook it free of mud and water and held it up. It was the size of his palm, clear blue, with geometric carvings – a vertical diamond at the center with four rays extending out to the corners, and some illegible writing. The sun glanced off of it and sent a violet prism of light across Rufus’ dark face.

            “What’s that?” asked Bobby.

            “Dunno,” said Rufus, holding the stone up to the light. It shimmered a little. The baby, distracted by some bees going by, glanced once at it and then returned to his study. In the light, his wings were iridescent and shining, and his skin even paler and more translucent. “Let’s get it inside and take a closer look.” He glanced at the baby. “I’d like to perform some tests on this little guy, too.”

            “Tests?” Karen hugged the baby close, and he grunted irritably, pointing at a passing honeybee. “What kind of tests?”

            “Don’t worry, they won’t hurt him none,” Rufus reassured her. “Give him here.”

            Karen hesitated, but the baby reached out trustingly to Rufus, and she let the Hunter take him. Rufus and the little boy stared seriously at each other for a moment, and Rufus showed him the blue stone. The baby glanced at it, disinterested, and put his hands in Rufus’ moustache. Rufus smiled, turned, and walked slowly back to the house, still studying the stone in his hand while the little boy followed the dance of bees with his eyes. Bobby and Karen trailed after them.

            “Why didn’t you tell me about this coyote?” Bobby asked after a silence.

            “I forgot,” said Karen apologetically. “In all the fuss, you know. It just – nothing happened, and I didn’t give it any mind.”

            Bobby shook his head. “I think it’s important,” he said. “Tell me about this coyote.”

            Karen gave him an odd look. “I didn’t say it was a coyote,” she said. “I said I _thought_ it was a coyote. It was pretty big. But not a wolf, right? You said there wasn’t any wolves in South Dakota.”

            “None to speak of anymore,” said Bobby. “Was it black? Red eyes?”

            Karen stared at him, and her eyes filled with dread. “You saw it too?” she whispered, and clutched Bobby’s arm.

            They both looked nervously around the yard. Rufus had already gotten back to the house and was walking up the porch steps, oblivious. “We better lock the doors,” said Bobby, and hurried them back inside.


	6. 6

 

 

            Rufus dug an old Army duffel out of his truck and plunked it in the middle of the living room floor. From it he removed a round rug with a strange pentacle on it, two revolvers, a box of cartridges, and a black box covered in runes. Bobby, as inconspicuously as he knew how, carefully locked all the doors and windows, and made sure his shotgun had a round chambered.

            Rufus spread out the rug in front of the TV and put the baby in the middle. Then he guided Karen and Bobby to the wall. The baby sat in the center of the rug and flapped his wings once, then frowned down at his feet, pulled off a sock, and grabbed his toes.

            “Mee mee mee mee mee,” he said.

“Call him,” Rufus said to Karen. “Tell him to come to you.”

            Karen knelt on the floor and held out trembling arms. The pentacle looked very pagan and scary. “C’mere, sweetie,” she said, smiling and gesturing to the little boy. “C’mon, come see me.”

            The baby stared at her as though she’d lost her mind, but obediently lifted his big wings out of the way and crawled out of the circle to her. Rufus smiled.

            “Not a demon,” he said.

            “Well, of course not,” said Karen indignantly, scooping the little boy up. “I _said_ he wasn’t.”

            “Amma baba,” agreed the baby, and stuck his finger up Karen’s left nostril.

            Next, Rufus rubbed a chunk of Himalayan salt on the boy’s arm. The boy grabbed at it, and stared into its pink depths with a scowl of concentration. When Rufus dabbed Holy Water on his head, he only blinked and waved him away, and when he was offered a solid silver spoon, grasped it firmly in one dimpled fist, and put it in his mouth.

            “So far so good,” said Rufus.

            “What are you testing for?” asked Bobby. This was all still very new to him.

            “Monsters,” said Rufus. “Think he’s safe to have around.” He ruffled the baby’s head and said, “Bobby, you got a jeweler’s loupe?”

            “In here,” said Bobby. He led Rufus into his office and rifled through his desk drawers until he pulled one out. Rufus turned on the desk lamp, put the stone on a piece of plain white paper, and examined it carefully. Bobby could hear Karen speaking to the baby in a high, sing-song voice, to which the baby replied in his vowel-laden monosyllables, serious and seemingly unimpressed by all the precautions.

            “Hey,” said Rufus slowly. “You got any texts in ancient languages?”

            “A few,” said Bobby. “What?”

            “Look,” said Rufus, stepping aside. Bobby picked up the loupe and stared through it at the stone. Much of the writing had been scratched or worn, but he could see three sets of symbols.

            “What is that?” asked Bobby. “Hebrew?”

            Rufus gave him a look. “I can read Hebrew,” he said caustically. “Naturally.”

            “Naturally,” Bobby agreed, mentally kicking himself. “Don’t look like Arabic.”

            “Looks Middle-eastern, though,” said Rufus. “Let’s start lookin’.”

            “You got it,” said Bobby, and started to rifle through the numerous texts lining the shabby red-papered walls.

            The morning brightened into afternoon, and Karen brought them sandwiches and coffee, and still they looked. Now and again Bobby could hear Karen trying to play with the baby, giving him wooden spoons and pots, or old wood thimbles and a plastic bucket, but for the most part the little boy simply made noncommittal noises and sat patiently where he was. He heard her try to feed him; after an hour of wheedling and begging and demanding, and the little boy stubbornly silent, she apparently gave up and ran the Cream of Wheat through the disposal.

            When the afternoon sun began to grow mellower, Karen came in, holding the boy on her hip. She looked tired and frustrated, but the baby simply looked from Bobby to Rufus with a calm expression on his little face.

            “Anything?” she asked dispiritedly, sitting heavily in an easy chair. The baby climbed up her torso and reached for the katana hanging over her head, and she pulled him back down.

            “Nothin’ yet,” said Bobby. “It ain’t Arabic or Farsi or Urdu.”

            The boy made an impatient noise and reached for the katana again. Karen pulled him away, and he said irritably, “Amma! Eee awwaaah oooo.” He frowned.

            “Here,” said Bobby, digging a battered Rubik’s Cube out of one of his desk drawers and handing it to the baby boy. “Leave my katana alone, pipsqueak.”

            The little boy took the disarranged Rubik’s Cube in both hands, his blue eyes widening. He settled firmly onto Karen’s lap, brows knotted, and stared. Karen sighed, closed her eyes, and let her head drop back against the back of the chair. Bobby smiled.

            “Harder than you thought, eh?” he said with a chuckle, pulling out another textbook.

            “Yes,” said Karen. “And he’s not even a bad baby. No dirty diapers, no crying, he’s not even hungry.”

            “Eeee bah bah bah bah,” said the baby thoughtfully, staring hard at the Rubik’s Cube.

            “Hey!” said Rufus suddenly. He groped around in the numerous papers and scribbles on the desk, his eyes on a particularly shabby old book Bobby had picked up at an estate sale in Iowa. “I think I’ve found one of the symbols. It’s Amharic.”

           “Amharic?” said Bobby.

            “Ethiopian,” said Rufus. “See this one?” He pointed to the first symbol. “This is _hamus_ … it means Thursday.”

            “Okay,” said Bobby.

            “And this one … “ Rufus turned over the pages quickly. “I think this is it. Samayawi … uh … blue?”

            “Blue?” Bobby looked at the stone. “Seems redundant, but okay.”

            “Tay,” said the baby, still frowning at the Rubik’s Cube.

            “And this one ... “ Rufus spent another minute poring over his notes. “ _Mayet_ … it’s a verb, to watch, to look at.”

            “Thursday, blue, watch.” Bobby shook his head. “That don’t help none.”

            Rufus turned the stone over. “You’re a smart blood,” he grinned. “You know Greek, right?”

            “Enough to get by,” admitted Bobby, embarrassed. “My Latin’s better.”

            “Can you read that?”

            Rufus held the stone out to Bobby. There were scratches on the back that Bobby hadn’t seen previously.

            **Μπλε και εύκρατο ουράνιο ον της Πέμπτης ║ να παρακολουθήσετε πάνω μας και μας κρατούν ασφαλείς**

“Gimme a minute,” said Bobby, squinting. “Uh. Okay.” He cleared his throat, and read carefully: “‘ _Ble kai éf_ _̱_ _krato ouránio on ti_ _̱_ _s Pémpti_ _̱_ _s , na parakolouthí_ _̱_ _sete páno_ _̱_ _mas kai mas kratoún asfaleís…_ _‘_ ”

            A shadow passed over the window, and the lights sputtered. The television flickered on, showed static, then shut off again. Rufus, Bobby, and Karen looked around, and Bobby and Rufus exchanged glances.

            “Let’s not say that again, man,” said Rufus quietly, and turned the stone back over.

            “Okay,” whispered Bobby. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

            “Tay,” said the little boy loudly, and threw the Rubik’s Cube at them with some force. It bounced off the arm of Bobby’s chair, clattered onto the desk, and dragged and scattered the papers all over the floor with its fall. Tired and aggravated, Bobby scooped it up.

            “Dammit!” he exclaimed. “Karen, don’t let him – “

            He paused. Both Karen and Rufus were staring at the Rubik’s Cube. He looked down, and blinked.

            It was solved.

            “Amma baba,” said the baby with a yawn, and fell asleep.

 

 


	7. 7

 

            Rufus ran several more tests on the baby, but nothing was conclusive. He and Bobby pored through Bobby’s growing library of the arcane, looking for anything with wings, anything that would help them connect this strange small being with the Amharic and Greek inscriptions on that blue stone. Afternoon faded into evening, and evening darkened into night, and still Rufus was frustrated. When Karen suggested that the baby was actually an angel, Rufus made a face.

            “There’s no proof angels exist,” he said.

            “Demons exist,” she said shakily. “I should know.”

            Bobby put his hand in hers, and the sleeping baby boy stirred and made a little whimpering noise. She shushed him and held him close.

            “I know demons exist,” said Rufus, more gently to Karen than he would have to anyone else. “But I got nothin’ on angels. Nothin’. Just stuff in the Bible, and some Judeo-Islam-Christian stuff  - the Talmud and some Baha’i and Fravashi and in the Kabbalah. That’s all.”

            Bobby turned the blue stone over in his hands.   _Ble kai éf_ _̱_ _krato ouránio on ti_ _̱_ _s Pémpti_ _̱_ _s , na parakolouthí_ _̱_ _sete páno_ _̱_ _mas kai mas kratoún asfaleís_ _… Blue and temperate celestial being of Thursday …_ No. That was impossible. He turned to Karen, who was holding the little boy and rocking him. The small round face was relaxed in sleep, pressed against her shoulder, and the black lashes made smudges under the eyes, shut tight in slumber. Glossy black hair, glossy black wings, pale and iridescent ivory skin …. _Watch over us and keep us safe …_

“Bobby,” said Rufus, reaching out to the stone. “ _Hamus, samayawi, mayet – “_

            There was the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder, and all three of them looked up. Something up on the roof rattled, as though the tiles were being battered by a high wind. The lights flickered, and the TV turned on by itself, showing static. In the kitchen, they heard the radio come on, but it sounded like it was simply tuning through the stations randomly. The lights flickered again, and then went out.

            There was another rumble of thunder, and then they heard the growl on the back porch, and the sound of an animal on the boards.

            _Click click click_

“Bobby,” breathed Karen. She had gone very pale. Rufus rose and pulled a .45 out of his holster.

            “You got a dog?” he asked quietly.

            There was a flash of lightning and the low rumble of thunder.

            “No,” said Bobby. He picked up his shotgun.

            “Bobby!” whispered Karen. Bobby could just barely see her in the gloom, but he could hear how frightened she was. He reached for her and touched her arm, then the little boy’s back. The boy squirmed and made a soft, inquisitive sound.

            _Click click click_

Another low growl, this one by the window. They all looked at the panes, dimly reflecting what little light remained in the house. Bobby knew it was not his imagination that there was a pair of red-lit eyes staring back at them.

            “Amma baba?” said the little boy sleepily. Bobby heard his wings rustle, saw the pale, glowing skin move. He was rubbing his eyes with the backs of his open hands and yawning. _God, he’s cute_ , thought Bobby, and then irrationally, _I ain’t gonna let no Devil Dog eat him._

            “Don’t think this is no regular dog,” breathed Rufus.

            “It ain’t,” Bobby said softly back. “Karen and me both saw it. Last night. In the salvage yard.”

            Rufus gave him a dirty look. “And you didn’t think to tell me this before now?”

            “Well,” said Bobby apologetically, “we didn’t technically _know_ it was anything.”

_Click click click_

            Another growl, and something thumped at the back door. They all went very still.

            “Bobby!” hissed Rufus. “Salt.”

            “You think?”

            “Can’t hurt.” Rufus turned to Karen. “Upstairs. Lock the bedroom door. Stay away from the window.”

            “Okay,” she whispered.

            “Tay,” said the baby. He was looking curiously at the back door.

            _Click click click_

            The door rattled, then banged. The room was briefly lit by lightning. They could see the hulking figure of a huge dog, outlined against the window, its eyes a furious red; then the light vanished and so did it. There was a low and menacing growl, and the door rattled again.

            “Oh, god,” gasped Karen. She backed away from the door, clutching the little boy tight. Bobby could hear the rustling of the boy’s wings, and the little pale body turned in her arms and blinked bright blue eyes at them. It occurred to Bobby that he probably shouldn’t have been able to see the boy’s eyes in the dark, but then there was a loud crushing blow against the back door, and Karen screamed and ran for the stairs.

            Bobby scrambled for the kitchen and opened the pantry door. He knew there was an industrial-sized box of table salt on the floor; he groped for it, barely recognizing its red and white motto in the dark. There was another flash of lightning and rumble of thunder, and the sound of hail on the tin porch roof. Then the front door gave a great bang, as though someone had struck it with a battering ram.

            “Rufus!” yelled Bobby. “It’s at the front door!”

            “No it ain’t!” Rufus yelled back from the office. “It’s still here!”

            “Balls! There’s two of ‘em,” moaned Bobby. He found the box and tore it open. The front door banged and banged, and he could hear a frustrated yowling from the porch. Bobby poured a line of salt across the jamb and ran into the back office. Rufus was scribbling symbols in chalk on the floor, and all Bobby could think was that he sure hoped Karen wouldn’t get mad about it. Rufus looked over his shoulder. “There’s two of ‘em out there now,” he said tightly.

            “And one at the front,” said Bobby. “Great.”

            “You got salt in that shotgun?”

            Bobby patted the sawn-off with one hand. “Yep, just like you said.”

            “Good,” grunted Rufus, getting up and pulling another sawn-off out of his duffel. “We’re gonna need it.”

            They stood back to back at the foot of the stairs, listening to the growls and bangs and watching the flashes of lightning. The rain was drumming heavily on the roof now, so loud they couldn’t hear the scrape of toenails on the porch boards. There were three huge blows in succession, and Bobby heard the back door crack and splinter.

            “Here it comes,” breathed Rufus.

            Bobby lifted the shotgun. His hands were shaking.

            At the next blow, the door shattered inward. The wind and rain roared through the house, scattering the salt line. Bobby couldn’t see anything in the doorway except bright red eyes, but when lightning flashed, he saw the shapes – not so much black dogs as the complete absence of light in the shape of dogs – huge, horse-sized, red-eyed dogs. He could smell sulfur and hear their growls, and then their infernal darkness moved into his house.

            Rufus let go the first shot. Rock salt blasted through one of the dark figures, and they heard it howl as it retreated back down the hall. The other one advanced with a snarl, and Bobby pulled the trigger. It yelped and circled around.

            “Dammit,” Bobby panted. “Hard to hit these things.”

            Rufus had already chambered another round. “Up the stairs,” he said. “We can defend ourselves easier up there.”

            Bobby ran up the stairs with Rufus at his back. He heard another deafening report from Rufus’ shotgun, and turned at the top to see a black shape flinch back. Bright red eyes stared up at him. Over the banner, Bobby saw two other dog-shaped shadows circling the hall; he blasted them from the railing. One ran into the kitchen, but the other snarled; the darkness threw itself at the wall with a crash, knocking over a side table and breaking a vase.

            “Bobby!” screamed Karen from the bedroom. “The windows! I see them out the windows!”

            Bobby ran into the bedroom, Rufus at his heels. Karen had lit the hurricane lantern, and by its dim quivering light, the room looked very eerie. Rufus shut and locked the door and poured salt in a line on the floor, then went to the windows and looked out. “Dammit!” he yelled, and poured salt on the windowsills. “Must be a dozen of ‘em out there.”

            “What are they?” demanded Karen. She was sitting in the middle of the bed, clutching the little boy close; her eyes were streaked with tears and she looked terrified. The little boy’s wings were unfurled, and stretched from the headboard past the end of the bed, glistening and iridescent in the candlelight. He looked up at Bobby with those bright blue eyes, gleaming in the darkness, with an expression of mule-headed determination on his little face. Bobby wondered if he knew he ought to be afraid.

            “I think they’re Hellhounds,” said Rufus, reloading. They could hear the scrape and clatter of large clawed feet on the stairs, and then the sounds of snarling and growling at the bedroom door. Out in the yard, above the noise of the driving rain and thunder, was howling. “Dunno why they’re here. They’re Crossroads monsters.” He dumped the box of rocksalt shells on the bed. “We shouldn’t even be able to see or hear them.” He glanced back at Karen, then at the little boy, and said carefully, “Unless there’s something you ain’t tellin’ us.”

            “I made no deals with no demons,” said Karen, angry. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with that trash.”

            “All right, all right,” said Rufus. There was another blow at the door, and the sound of canine toenails scraping, as though the Hellhounds were trying to dig their way in. “Just checkin’. You know I got to.”

            There was a great crack at the bedroom door, and it bowed and splintered inward, straining on its hinges. Behind them, one of the window panes fissured, as though something had struck it. There was another crack of thunder and flash of lightning, and Karen cried out, “Stop it, stop it! He’s just a baby! Go away! Go AWAY!”

            “Amma baba!” exclaimed the little boy, pushing away from her and dropping out of her arms. She scrambled to gather him back, but he squirmed away and crawled toward the end of the bed. His wings were fully extended, and brushed past both Bobby and Rufus, knocking over one of the side table lamps. Bobby knew it wasn’t his imagination that his blue eyes were glowing a little.

            “Pipsqueak – “ he began, intending to pick up the baby and defend him with his own body, but the Hellhound’s final blow against the bedroom door split it in several pieces, and a huge, shadowy figure lurched partway into the room, red eyes flashing. The smell of sulfur and smoke struck Bobby like a blow. The hound gave a great snarl, and fixed its eyes on the baby boy.

            “Bobby!” screamed Karen.

            Bobby and Rufus discharged their shotguns simultaneously. The Hellhound flinched back, but the blast had blown a break in the salt line, and in another second, the room was full of a large, whirling shadow and a horrific howling.

            “BOBBY!”

            Both Bobby and Rufus reached for the little boy, but his wings flexed and pushed them away. The light in the room flickered and illuminated, and his blue eyes glowed brighter. One of the lightbulbs in the side table lamp exploded into sparks, and there was a terrific rumble of thunder.  The baby lifted one dimpled hand, palm out, to the Hellhound. Bobby saw no fear on the baby’s face – just a mulish resolve.

            _Blue and temperate celestial being of Thursday_

            “Dook,” said the little boy grimly.

            The Hellhound opened its jaws; Bobby could see the gleam of teeth and the slavering tongue. It lurched forward and grasped the boy by the torso, shaking him.

            “No!” screamed Karen, lunging at the hound. Bobby, not daring to shoot for fear he’d hit the boy, swung his sawn-off at the beast’s head; it glanced off as though he’d swatted a fly. There was a terrific clap of thunder as the hound tightened its jaws. The little boy cried out, almost angrily; his wings flapped and whirled, and the fat little legs kicked.

            “Bobby!” sobbed Karen. “Help him!”

            _Watch over us and protect us_

            Bobby heard Rufus yell something, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He saw the hound turn, and another entered the room, snarling. The hound that had the boy in his jaws raised its head, its eyes flashing triumphantly.

            But just then the boy’s eyes glowed bright, and with a report like a mortar going off, the hound burst into dark fragments, exploding into a horrible bloom of black goo, spattering Bobby, Rufus, Karen, the bed, and the walls. The room filled with the smell of burning sulfur and ozone.

            The little boy dropped to the floor, covered in the slime. His wings fluttered and scattered the gunk all around them. He pushed himself up onto his knees, spread his wings again, and fixed the second hound with a baleful stare.

            The Hellhound stared down at the baby with its bright red eyes, and hesitated.

            _Hamus. Samayawi. Mayet._

            “Dook,” said the baby, raising his hand again, and the second hound detonated in black slime and smoke.

            The lights flickered, and turned back on. The rattling thunder died down and the patter of rain on the window panes ceased. There was a sudden and overwhelming silence.

            The baby flicked his wings, and folded them against his back. He looked at the black slime, the yellow sulfur scattering the floor, then up at Bobby and Rufus. His little pink mouth curved sideways into a heart-melting smile.

            “Heh,” he chuckled.

 


	8. 8

 

            Karen swept up the sulfur and rock salt in the kitchen, and opened the windows to air out the smell. Rufus cleaned up the chalk marks on the floor of the office, and Bobby mopped up the black slime in the bedroom.

            Karen had turned on all the lights in the house, and was playing the local church radio station full blast. At the moment, it was blaring “In the Garden,” and she was singing along with Tennessee Ernie Ford with obstinate ferocity. The little boy was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, emptying his third sippy cup of milk and honey, and watching her with a sober expression on his face. Bobby dumped the blackened water out of the mop bucket into the side yard, and wondered if Karen would object if he put some Elvis on instead.

            It was almost three AM when Rufus and Bobby had cleaned up the house to Karen’s standards. Rufus collapsed on the old sofa in the office, and Bobby stretched out in his easy chair, shotgun within reach, and drank coffee. Karen wrapped herself and the little boy in a down quilt and snuggled into the squashy love seat across from him. She had bathed the baby and dressed him in their last clean onesie, and when Karen lay back with him, both swaddled in soft cotton and feathers, Bobby watched the little boy reach two fingers up to her forehead and touch her, lightly. She kissed him with a fond smile, and he quirked up his cupids-bow mouth, stared with brilliant blue eyes, then turned in her arms and covered them both with one of his glossy black wings. Bobby watched them sleep, deeply conflicted, and thought over and over in his head: _Ble kai éf_ _̱_ _krato ouránio on ti_ _̱_ _s Pémpti_ _̱_ _s , na parakolouthí_ _̱_ _sete páno_ _̱_ _mas kai mas kratoún asfaleís_ _…_

            He was startled awake by Rufus shaking his shoulder. He blinked; his eyes were sandy and his neck was stiff. The cup of coffee on the side table was cold. Early morning sunlight streamed into the room, and he could hear birdsong through the still-opened windows.

            “I got to go, man,” said Rufus in a low voice. “I’m still one step ahead of the Topeka cops, and I wanna keep it that way.”

            He turned and started to pack his duffel. Bobby sat up and stretched, and looked over at the love seat. Karen and the little boy were still deeply asleep, wound in a cocoon of arms and quilt and glossy black wings. The sunlight picked out the golden strands of Karen’s blonde hair, and the lustrous gleam of shadowy feathers. The little boy’s round-cheeked face was pressed against Karen’s breast, and one of her hands cupped the back of his head, tenderly, her fingers twined in his spiky black hair.

            Bobby turned to Rufus. Rufus was watching him watch Karen, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. Shaking himself, Bobby heaved himself to his feet, and helped Rufus collect the rest of his things. When he picked up the blue stone they had found in the salvage yard, Rufus shook his head, and pushed Bobby’s proffered hand away.

            “Keep it,” he muttered, and turned to go.

            Bobby followed him through the kitchen to the remains of the front door. Bobby had propped the old storm door up in its place; he would have to take a trip to the hardware store to replace what the Hellhounds had destroyed last night, but for now, the storm door would do to keep out bugs and animals. There were deep grooved scratches in the hardwoods, testament to the size of the beasts that had ravaged his home the night before. Bobby shuddered, wishing, not for the first nor the last time, that he had never had to meet Rufus Turner, but at the same time being immeasurably grateful that he had.

            Rufus turned on the porch with a crooked smile. “Hell of a night,” he said.

            “Yeah,” agreed Bobby. He scratched his head and scuffed the toe of his boot on the porch boards. It seemed so prosaic to offer his hand, but he did anyway. “Thanks for coming, buddy.”

            Rufus shook his hand. He still looked distracted. “Look,” he said. “I ain’t tellin’ you your business, and I ain’t tellin’ you how to handle your old lady.”

            Bobby sighed, and waited for Rufus’ “but.”

            “But,” said Rufus seriously. “That li’l dude in there, he’s trouble. You don’t wanna go keepin’ him, man. He will bring you nothin’ but grief and trouble.”

            “You got any suggestions?” grumbled Bobby, staring out over the yard past Rufus’ truck.

            Rufus shrugged. “Nope. Let’s just say this situation is unprecedented and leave it at that.”

            “You’re a big help,” said Bobby. Rufus grinned.

            “Hey, you wanna try to raise an angel baby, that’s on you, man,” he said. “Least you don’t have to worry about no agents of chaos messin’ up his line. That little dude, he got some juice.”

            He turned, duffel slung over his back, and walked out to the truck. He slid the duffel across the seat and got in. He cranked it up, threw it in reverse, and backed down the wet, bumpy drive. As he pulled out, Bobby waved, once. He saw Rufus wave back, then the truck turned onto the dirt road and roared away.

            Bobby stood for a while on the porch, looking at the claw marks on the wood boards, and at the morning glories and rose bushes by the walkway, and the bees tumbling in the blossoms, and thought about his father, and whiskey, and how Karen’s eyes were blue like the sky and the little boy’s eyes were blue like the ocean. It felt as though his brain was a ball at a Chinese ping-pong tournament. He thought about the Department of Health and Human Services and how badly it had failed him, about his mother’s death, about onesies and sippy cups and milk sweetened with honey. He thought about the Rubik’s Cube and the Hellhounds and the comforting feel of the warm fat legs kicking against his arms in the bathtub, of origami boats and fluttering wings and glowing blue lights and the piping, cooing voice. Then he heard movement in the kitchen, and Karen’s voice, bright and cheerful, singing the Alphabet song, and he smiled when he heard the baby’s serious reply of, “Amma baba. Na na na aaaaaaaaah!”

            He turned, his mind made up, and walked into the kitchen, mentally calculating the price of baby clothes and milk against the cost of two new doors.

***************************

            Bobby finished hanging the back porch door just in time to stand and watch part of the sunset before he gathered his tools. He had wanted to get two new storm doors too, but the cost of onesies and baby socks and little stretchy pants was surprisingly higher than he had anticipated, and he concluded that new storm doors would simply have to wait. Fortunately he already had the tools to buff the claw marks off the floor boards. That would take about a week’s worth of his time, but the mental image of the little boy taking his first steps into Karen’s outstretched arms on gleaming, freshly polished wood floors was appealing. He wondered if he dared buy a camera and record the event, and concluded he would have to learn how to develop his own film, just as a precaution.

            He packed his tools away and tucked the tool box into the shed, eyes lingering on the blazing horizon. The morning glories had already twisted up their blue blossoms tight, and all the bees had apparently gone to bed. His salvage yard, that looked so chaotic and ugly to untrained eyes, gleamed with even rows of cars and extra parts. He turned back to his house, his cozy little house, with its vine-covered porch and clean glass windows, and smiled. He could smell beef barley stew and cornbread, and his stomach growled. He was thankful Karen was such a good cook. He wondered if the baby would ever figure that out, or if he was going to subsist on milk and honey for the rest of his life.

            He and Karen still disagreed about a name. Karen, with a mind toward what he might have been called before, wanted to call him _Hamus_ , Amharic for Thursday, with Hampton as his nickname. Bobby was leaning towards Clarence. They decided to sleep on it, but Bobby was pretty sure Karen would win this battle. “Hampton Singer,” he said to himself, and chuckled as he ascended the back porch steps.

            Karen had found some jigsaw puzzles in the hall closet, and spread one of them on the kitchen floor for the baby. He sat solemnly in the midst of the little cardboard pieces, picking them up one by one and examining them thoroughly before putting them down. He had already correctly assembled half of it, seemingly at random. Bobby saw a lot of purchases at the toy store in his future, and wondered at what point he would be able to teach him chess. Karen had never had a knack for it, but this little fellow seemed to have a tactical mind that Bobby was itching to explore.

            The little boy looked up at Bobby as he walked into the kitchen. His big, dark blue eyes were very serious, and he had a puzzle piece clutched in each fat little fist.

            “Oomeh baba,” he said, and showed Bobby the pieces.

            “Good job, pipsqueak,” said Bobby, ruffling the thick black hair. “You’re sharp as a tack.”

            “Ah mah mah mah mah,” said the baby. He simultaneously put both pieces exactly where they belonged, then selected two more and frowned at them. “Mmm. Dah dah dah.”

            “Keep it up, short stuff,” said Bobby. Karen turned from the stove where she was stirring the stew and smiled. Bobby reflected he had never seen her look so happy. “Smells good, love,” he said, catching her around the waist from behind and kissing the back of her neck. She giggled and turned in his arms, carefully setting her ladle down before putting her arms round his neck and kissing him soundly on the lips.

            “You’re fuzzy,” she said, scratching lightly at his beard.

            “I’ll trim it tonight,” he promised her, and kissed her again. She kissed back enthusiastically, and Bobby wondered if he could convince her to let the baby sleep in the guest room. _Probably not,_ he thought glumly.

            He let her go check the cornbread while he set the table, noticing with a smile that there was a full sippy cup set at the third place already, and that she had somehow found and cleaned up an old high chair from the attic. Bobby hoped the wings wouldn’t get in the way.

            Karen had just ladled out the stew and was cutting the cornbread when there was a low rumble of thunder, and the lights flickered, then burned on steadily. They looked up cautiously. Then someone knocked on the front door, and they jumped.

            They both turned toward the door, then to each other. Karen looked alarmed, and Bobby thought, _I didn’t hear anyone out there. No car. No footsteps on the gravel. No footsteps on the porch._ He knew his shotgun was in the office, but there was a.38 in the hall closet handy if he needed it. Cautiously, he went to the front door, and opened it.

            A short, fair-haired young man with whiskey-colored eyes stood on the front mat, bouncing jauntily on his toes. He was swirling a lollipop in his mouth, which he removed when Bobby grunted cautiously, “What?”

            “A good evening to you too, sir,” His eyes twinkled smugly up at Bobby. “May I come in? I believe –“ he put the lollipop back in his mouth, spun it with his tongue, then popped it back out. “ - you have something of mine.”

            “I doubt that,” said Bobby, looking him up and down. He was wearing old jeans, a battered brown leather jacket over a flannel shirt, and rather down-at-the-heels work boots. “I got nothin’ in here that’s yours, Hippie. We’re settin’ down to dinner. Move on.”

            He started to shut the door, but the young man was too quick for him. Hand and boot held the door open with surprising strength, and he looked up at Bobby with a smirk. Bobby tried to force the door closed, but it wouldn’t budge. He gritted his teeth, put one hand on the young man’s chest, and pushed as hard as he could.

            He might as well have tried to move a brick wall. There was no give, not the slightest inkling that the strange young man had shifted, or even noticed.

            Bobby stared, heart thumping, and stepped back. The young man put the lollipop back in his mouth and grinned.

            “Now,” he said. “I’m not asking again, Robert Singer. May. I. Come. In?”

            Bobby swallowed. He heard Karen behind him whisper something to the baby, heard the light flutter of feathers as she picked the tot up. Remembering that not even Hellhounds had bothered the little boy, he nodded, hoping he wasn’t letting in the Devil, and stepped aside.

 


	9. 9

 

            The young man sauntered into the front hall, hands in his pockets, clattering the lollipop against his teeth insouciantly. He didn’t flinch when Bobby slammed the door shut, and followed his host’s glance to the hall closet where the .38 was.

            “By all means, shoot me,” he said, spreading his arms generously. “If you think it’ll do any good.”

            Bobby stared hard at him. He didn’t see black sclera or smell sulfur, but you never knew. Then again, Rufus had reminded him that shooting a demon-possessed person didn’t kill the demon, just the person, so chances were the .38 wouldn’t help him, anyway. He remembered the salt shaker on the kitchen table and said, “Come on in.” He turned into the kitchen, feeling the young man follow him.

            Karen was standing at the table, wide-eyed, holding the little boy. She stared at the young man and took a step back, but with a suddenness that startled them both, the baby dropped his sippy cup and lurched forward, arms outstretched, making little grabby motions with his fingers.

            “GAY GAY!” he shrieked. His dark blue eyes were round and desperate, and his wings flared out to full width, making Karen stagger. “Gay gay _gay gay_ GAY!”

            “There’s my boy!” crowed the young man, striding forward with his arms outstretched. “C’mere, buddy!”

            The little boy heaved out of Karen’s clutching arms and seemed to fly straight to the young man, his wings knocking over the glasses of iced tea and the vase of flowers on the kitchen table. His little chubby legs were kicking excitedly, and the young man caught him in a big hug, laughing.

            “Gay gay gay gay gay gay gay!” the little boy shrieked, wriggling and bouncing with delight in the strange man’s arms. His wings pumped and fluttered, sending the hanging light spinning, whooshing the dish towels off their hooks, and knocking Bobby and Karen in the head. “Gay gay gay gay GAY!”

            “That’s right, bud, it’s me,” laughed the man. He kissed the little boy’s temple and stroked the dark hair. “It’s me, it’s Gabe.”

            “Gay gay gay!” The baby pulled back in the young man’s arms, touched his face, grabbed his nose, patted his hair, all the time with a dimpled smile on his pink lips. The young man grinned, and reached back to the flared wings.

            “Put these away, little man,” he said chidingly. “How many times I gotta tell you? _Rude_!”

            He stroked down the length of each wing, his fingers light and deliberate.  The glossy black feathers began to fade, turning a soft glowing gray, then translucent, so that Bobby and Karen could see through them.  They flickered once, as though a spark had coursed through them, then they vanished completely. They were gone.

            Karen gave a little sound like a sob. Bobby took a deep breath, picked up the vase and the two glasses, then stepped up to Karen and put an arm around her shoulders. She shrugged it off and stepped forward.

            “Wh – who are you?” she demanded shakily.

            The young man grinned at her over the baby’s spiky black head. “Gabe,” he said, then added a little diffidently, “Gabriel, actually.” He coughed and looked embarrassed. “Don’t hold it against me, now.”

            “Gay gay,” said the little boy happily. He pulled the lollipop out of Gabriel’s mouth and hit the young man on the forehead with it. Gabriel grimaced and laughed, then gave the little boy a quick, impulsive hug, which the baby returned.

            “Oh, man,” said Gabriel. “I’ve been looking for this little guy for _months._ ” He ruffled the thick black hair and kissed the happy baby on the forehead. “Cassie,” he said, switching the baby to his hips, “am I glad to see you! Did you know,” he added, grinning at Karen and Bobby, and oblivious to Karen’s agitation, “I just won a bet against Raphael _and_ Michael? They said I couldn’t track Cassie’s celestial signature past the Pleistocene. You,” he said to the little boy, who was poking the lollipop with one finger, “almost got eaten by a pteranodon in the Cretaceous era. Naughty, naughty!”

            “Gay gay!” declared the little boy, and threw the lollipop down.

            “You little scamp.” Gabriel kissed the little boy on the forehead again, and the baby put his head down on Gabriel’s shoulder contentedly.

            “Wait,” said Bobby. His voice felt very thick and his head was spinning. “Wait just a damn minute.” He paused, staring hard at the young man. “Gabriel? You mean …. _the_ Gabriel? The Archangel?”

            “Yep,” he said cheerfully. “One of the lower Ophanim – Habakkuk – got some wild hare up his ass, said Cassie here was gonna be the next Lucifer, and zapped him forward thirty million years. Sheesh. Asshole.” He ruffled the baby’s hair again fondly. “As if little Cassie here could rebel against Heaven. Come on, look at him!”

            “Ah ba ba ba ba,” said the baby boy contentedly, snuggling into Gabriel’s chest.

            “We knew he’d gone some _when_ and not some _where_ ,” Gabriel continued, bouncing the little boy lightly on his hip. “At first we thought he’d gone back in time, and I spent a couple of weeks sorting through the Mesozoic. But then I picked up his signature in the end of the Triassic, saw the remains of the Pterandon he’d wasted, and followed him here.”

            “Oh,” said Bobby in a small voice. He could hear Karen’s breathing beside him, fast and harsh.

            “See, Habakkuk’s first mistake was not picking an era and sticking with it,” said Gabriel conversationally, stroking the little boy’s back. “But I guess he got spooked by how close we were following him, and kept moving our little guy around.” He grinned down at the baby. “You’ve had quite a trip, champ.”

            “Ah ma ma ma ma ma,” said Cassie, and played with Gabriel’s jacket collar.

            “And those Hellhounds, am I right?” laughed Gabriel obliviously. “Habakkuk’s got some nerve, dealing with a Crossroads Demon. Man.”

            “I,” said Bobby, and swallowed. He couldn’t go on. It was too much to handle.

            “So,” said Gabriel, “I guess I’d better take this little guy home, huh?” He smiled at Karen and Bobby, ignoring Karen’s wobbly lower lip and Bobby’s stunned stare. “I mean,” he added with a chuckle, “I’m sure you’ll be relieved to have him off your hands. I love the little guy, but he can be a handful. Talk about stubborn!”

            “But,” said Karen, and her voice broke.

            The baby lifted his head and looked at her, blue eyes wide and serious.

            “Amma baba,” he said gravely.

            “Oh god,” said Karen. Two big fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

            “Love – “ said Bobby, putting his hand on her arm. She shook it off angrily.

            “No,” she said. Her tears were flowing freely now. “No. I can’t – can’t we just – “ She reached out hesitantly to the Archangel. Gabriel stepped back, his smile suddenly wary.

            “Look,” he said, firm but gentle. “You can’t keep him.” He looked from Bobby to Karen and back again. His whiskey-colored eyes went serious, and his smile faded. “I’m sorry,” he added, and to do him credit, Bobby thought he really looked it. “This is bigger than you two. You can’t keep Castiel. He’s not even supposed to be on this _planet_ yet.”

            “Can’t we – “ Bobby hesitated and looked into the baby’s big blue eyes. He couldn’t give this up, not now, not now that he knew what it felt like, his father be damned to Hell and back. “Can’t you do something?” he begged, feeling his throat tighten. “I mean – you’re an Archangel – you gotta have some pull upstairs – right?”

            Gabriel hitched the little boy up on his hip. Castiel looked solemnly from Bobby to Karen, but Bobby noticed his little dimpled hands were clutching Gabriel’s jacket collar tight. The Archangel tipped his head to the side, lips pursed, amber eyes sober, and he slowly shook his head.

            “I’m very, very sorry,” he said.

            Two gleaming, creamy wings spread out from his back, glowing warm and golden; they stretched from his shoulders across the kitchen, twenty feet in each direction. The room was filled with the sound of rustling and whispering, and the scent of vanilla and burnt grass. The archangel took a deep breath, and gave Karen a look of profound sympathy. Then he snapped his fingers.

*****************************

            The rumble of thunder faded as the storm moved away. Bobby finished reassembling the old transistor radio and fumbled for the On switch. He heard static. He adjusted the volume, then the tuner. If he moved the antenna to the right, he could get the ball game.

            He stood up and wandered into his office absently. The house felt very big and empty, even with Karen reading her magazine in the living room. He supposed it was because Bill and Ellen had left that morning. The house always felt empty after company left. “Post Parting Depression,” Karen called it, tongue-in-cheek.

            He sorted through the random papers on his desk. He was studying Greek, on Rufus’ suggestion. He guessed he could learn Greek easily enough, considering he already knew Japanese. He ran one finger down the katana and frowned, then turned back to the desk. There was a large, blue stone, etched with some odd symbols, sitting like a paperweight in the middle of his desk. Where had that come from? A parting gift from the Harvelles? He’d have to ask Karen.

            He wandered, aimless and a little depressed, into the living room. Karen was sitting in her easy chair, reading a Woman’s Day article about the Perfect Pot Roast. Bobby smiled. Karen was such a good cook. He went over to the side table and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey. He lifted the tumbler, looking at the amber color as the light shone through it. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite remember what.

            Karen sighed and put the magazine down. She looked up at her husband, trying to tamp down the feeling that something was just … off. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Then she realized he was drinking, and made a face.

            “Bobby,” she said firmly, pushing herself to her feet. “I’m going to make some tea. You want some tea, sweetie?”

            “Hm? Oh, sure, love,” said Bobby absently, and knocked the rest of the whiskey back. Then he sat on the piano bench and stared at the carpet.

            Karen moved slowly into the kitchen. It felt too quiet, too empty in there, even with the radio going. Maybe it was the aftermath of the storm. She put on the kettle and took out the teabags and two mugs, then, feeling very tired, leaned against the counter with a sigh. She scanned her pristine kitchen absentmindedly, then her eye was caught by a black object under the kitchen table. She straightened and walked over, frowning. It looked long and thin, about eight inches, and shone a little bit. Perhaps Bill Harvelle had dropped his knife sheath?

            She knelt and groped under the table. Her fingers closed around something stiff with soft, giving edges, and she pulled it out and held it under the light.

            When Bobby came into the kitchen a minute later, his wife was kneeling on the floor, sobbing violently and inexplicably, an iridescent black feather clutched in one hand.

 

 

 

 

_*fin*_


End file.
